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.

There was a knock. Heidi’s face appeared around the heavy oak door.

‘You have a visitor, Herr Bormann.’

‘Otto Kalt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No reply yet from Charlie Jung?’

‘His butler told me he was in Switzerland, skiing or mountaineering.’

Charlie Jung. As elusive as smoke in fog.

‘Well, find out the name of his hotel and get a message to him. I want him to call me as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t take no for an answer.’ He lit another cigarette from the butt of the old one. ‘Now give me two minutes, then send Kalt in. We are not to be disturbed.’

‘Yes, sir. Would you like coffee?’

‘No, Heidi. That is all.’

‘Heil Hitler, Herr Bormann.’

Bormann opened the desk drawer and pulled out a photographic copy of a clear but slightly faded sheet of paper. It was titled Taufschein und Geburtszeugnis – Certificate of Baptism and Birth. He read it through carefully once more, memorising every last detail.

There was a knock at the door again.

‘Enter.’

Otto Kalt was a small man with metal-rimmed spectacles and dark hair. He stood to attention, raised himself to his full height – no more than five and a half feet – and clicked his heels.

‘Heil Hitler!’ He shot his arm out in the fascist salute.

From behind his desk, Bormann waved at Kalt to approach. Kalt took two steps forward. No one could have looked less like the Nazis’ idealised Nordic Aryan than Otto Kalt. Not even Himmler was such a poor specimen.

Bormann was not much taller, but he was broad and powerful, with the build and demeanour of a hog and the cunning of a cur. He ran his hand through his thinning, slicked-back hair and nodded to Kalt.

He had known and used Otto Kalt, who was of a similar age – early forties – half his life. They had been together since the heady days of the early 1920s. Kalt came from a rural peasant family, but he had been a Party member since the very beginning and had risen to some wealth. He was useful to Bormann, for he was obedient and had the slyness and callous brutality of his breed; he would shed blood with no more flicker of emotion than if he were killing a pig, as he had shown in the forest outside Parchim when he had slit the throat of the treacherous Walther Kadow on Bormann’s orders. Kalt had always submitted to Bormann, obeying every command. Just as Bormann, in his turn, submitted to every desire of his master, the Führer.

Some said that Bormann was like a son to Hitler. Perhaps it was true. If so, then it was even more true that he was like a father to Otto Kalt.

Bormann’s loyalty to Hitler had been repaid with immense power and he was now Head of the Party Chancellery. Kalt in his turn had been repaid for his loyalty – with the means to purchase a large and splendid farm a little way east of Hamburg.

Pausing for effect, Bormann stubbed out his cigarette and pulled yet another from the box on his desk, picked up the gold, swastika-embossed lighter Himmler had given him for his fortieth the previous year, flicked the wheel and lit it. As an afterthought, he offered Kalt the packet.

‘American,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Herr Reichsleiter,’ Kalt said, taking one of the Luckies.

‘Otto,’ Bormann said, handing him the certificate. ‘I have a small task for you. Read that carefully. Note every detail and then return it to me. It is the birth and baptism record of a ten-year-old girl. I want you to find her and dispose of her – and anyone who has ever been associated with her. It is best if the world never knows she existed. Leave no trace.’

‘Yes, Herr Reichsleiter.’

‘I cannot stress how important this task is. You have done many favours for me over the years and I have rewarded you well. But nothing – nothing – has been as crucial as this one thing. Succeed and I will double your land holding.

‘I will not fail you, Herr Reichsleiter.’ Kalt bowed his head.

‘Good.’

Because if you do fail me, thought Bormann, I am done for.

*

In the hour before first light, Father Peter Huber pulled back the duvet and gazed at the woman’s sleep-warm body. She was on her back, her hair tangled across the pillow. Her eyes drifted open and she smiled at him hazily, as though not sure whether this was still part of her dream.

‘Come back to bed, Peter.’ Her voice was husky, soft and full of sleep.

‘You know I can’t.’

He knelt at the side of the bed as though about to pray, but instead he bent forward and kissed her pubic hair lightly, breathing in the intoxicating fumes. She rolled towards him and, as he stood up, she reached out and tried to fumble beneath his priest’s robes.

‘Let me kiss you there, too.’

‘Trudchen, you are bad.’

‘But that’s why you love me, Peter. And later, I will confess to the priest and will be forgiven my transgressions.’

‘I am the priest!’

‘And will you deal with me very harshly, Father? Will you make me say twelve Hail Marys?’

He laughed. ‘I have made you coffee. It’s in the kitchen.’

It was still dark and snowing gently when Father Huber opened the door. Trudchen’s house was a little way from the village of Braundorf, a fact which made these nightly visits possible. It was a pleasant, modest chalet, high up on the Alm, backed by the mountains, and from there he had a pleasant stroll through the meadow back home. In the short nights of summertime, he had to leave her far earlier than this, but with the long nights of late November, they had more time together. A small but welcome blessing.

The snow had come early this year, however, which could sometimes be a problem. His tracks would be all too visible to the village gossips. And so he had to listen to the forecasts carefully. Today, it was said, the snow would fall steadily, all through the night and late into the day, and so it was proving. That meant his footprints would be erased almost as soon as they appeared.

Unfortunately for him, that also meant that Father Huber did not see two other pairs of footprints in the snow.

*

The church of St Mary Magdalene was almost four hundred years old. With its onion dome and its ornate, gilt interior, full of statuary and images from the Gospels, it was typical of the older churches in this part of Austria, or the province of Ostmark as the country had been designated since the Anschluss three years earlier.

The first thing you came to, by the door, beneath a colourful wooden wall carving of the Virgin, was an old octagonal baptismal font, deep enough to immerse a sizeable child. Then, ranged along the nave, came the rows of wooden pews, until, at last, you approached the high altar. For all its quaint charm, it was a small, simple church, perfectly fitting the needs of this little country community.

Father Huber entered, stamping the snow from his boots and removing his woollen hat, before lighting candles by the door and switching off his flashlight. The church had not yet been electrified so the only light came through windows or from candle flames. In the soft warm glow, he made his way down the nave and halted before the crucifix, made the sign of the cross and knelt down to say a silent prayer, confessing his sins of the night, though in his heart he could not really believe his liaison with Trudchen was wrong. Yes, the Roman Church demanded chastity of its clergy. But that was a law made by men. How could love be a sin in the sight of God?

He heard a cough. His shoulders tensed; surely Frau Giesler the cleaner could not be here so early? He knew from the way she sometimes looked at him that she had her suspicions. He rose to his feet and turned around, his hands clasped to the cross he wore around his neck. No, it wasn’t Frau Giesler, but a man – someone he did not recognise. Someone small and – he hated himself for even thinking it – rather insignificant looking. A traveller, perhaps.

‘Grüss Gott. Can I help you, sir?’

‘Father Huber?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘My name is Herr Kalt, sir. Otto Kalt. I am a lawyer. Please forgive the ungodly hour of my arrival – but I have been travelling many hours from Bremen and decided to push on rather than stopping the night at a hotel.’

The priest did not like this one bit. The man might seem to be of no consequence, but appearances could be horribly deceptive. Peter Huber forced himself to adopt a welcoming smile and extended a hand.

‘And why, pray, would a lawyer wish to talk to a humble parish priest?’

Kalt took the hand and held it a few seconds without quite shaking it. His fingers were cold and limp.

‘Well, first of all, I can tell you it involves a great deal of money.’ He shivered. ‘Is there, perhaps, somewhere a little warmer we could talk?’

‘Of course. My house is next door. Let us go and have some coffee.’

‘Ah, thank you, Father. A cup of coffee would certainly go down very well.’

*

Even though Huber had spent the night with Trudchen, his kitchen was still warm from the previous day, for the blue-tiled Kachelofen wood-burning stove retained its heat long after the fire had died down. The priest sat in the corner seat and poured the coffee. Were his hands shaking? He was a slender man of average height, but in these parts where the men were strong from mountain herding and harvesting, he had the appearance of a weakling. Too much time with his head in books.

‘Now then, Herr Kalt, perhaps you would tell me what this is all about.’

‘Real coffee, Father? What luxury. I am honoured.’

‘I had it from before the war and keep it for special occasions.’

‘A little sugar, too, perhaps?’ He laughed although he had said nothing funny. ‘If you have such a thing.’

Sugar was not as rare as coffee, but it was still a precious commodity these days. Huber smiled and gave his visitor one spoonful and left the spoon in his cup for stirring.

‘Thank you. Now, Father, I am the bearer of great tidings for a young girl named Klara Wolf, who I am certain is known to you. A large bequest is due to her from a man of considerable wealth and importance, who died not long ago in Hamburg. Killed in a British air raid – can you believe that? And to think Reichsmarschall Göring said we could call him Mayer if ever a British airplane intruded on our territory! Anyway, little Klara is now a very rich girl.’

‘Klara? Klara Wolf? I am trying hard to think if I know this girl. The name does not seem familiar, Herr Kalt.’

‘Surely a good priest never forgets those he has baptised? Anyway, the name will come to you soon enough. The point is, you see, I require her present whereabouts – and you were the obvious man to come to.’

The hairs at the nape of Huber’s neck prickled. He shook his head slowly.

‘No, I am afraid not. Forgive me, sir, I fear your long journey has been wasted. Perhaps you should have called ahead.’

Kalt narrowed his small, beady eyes and smiled.

‘You baptised her here in this very village, ten years ago – 1931. Her mother, Angelica Wolf – a healthy, pretty young girl of peasant stock – was present, but I believe her father was absent on military duty.’

Huber shook his head again, this time more briskly, as though he had a nervous tic.

‘No, truly, I do not recall the name.’

He studied Kalt. This small man did not look like a lawyer, even with his round spectacles. But what exactly did a lawyer look like? Well-to-do, perhaps? Well fed? This man Kalt had no meat on his body, let alone fat, and his hands were rough and thick like a son of the land. In Huber’s eyes, he looked like a Gestapo officer, not that he had ever seen one of that hated breed, to the best of his knowledge.