A thousand suns

Hitler rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. ‘I think not. They wouldn’t leave such a thing to chance. This can only mean they have intercepted the plane… it’s all over.’ He absent-mindedly stroked the decorative braiding on one of his cuffs. ‘We shall not be celebrating anything this evening, it seems.’

It was then Hauser realised that Hitler had dressed up for the occasion, worn his finest formal uniform ready to receive the telegram from the Americans. Hauser had little doubt that bottles of champagne lay ready in the pantry, unopened. Hitler looked pitifully like a child dressed for a cancelled birthday party, unwilling to change out of his party-best into his normal workaday things.

‘The plane may have been delayed across the ocean; it could even arrive a couple of hours after the deadline, depending on the weather. We will have to — ’

‘I think you are deceiving yourself… if they haven’t responded by now it is because they know there is no more threat. They must have intercepted the plane. Your bomb is no longer a threat to them.’

Perhaps he’s right.

Hitler inhaled deeply and smoothed down his tunic, aware that as he’d been wearing it all afternoon, it must now look untidy and creased.

‘I believe there is a small buffet laid out in the map room; feel free to help yourself,’ he muttered. ‘Please leave, there are things I need to attend to now.’ He dismissed Hauser with a limp flick of his wrist.

Hauser stood up uncertainly and saluted. Hitler barely acknowledged him, staring with lifeless and empty eyes at a small-scale architectural model of Speer’s on the corner of his desk. Hauser nodded curtly and backed out of the study, pulling the door closed behind him.

Frau Jung was waiting for him in the ante-room, her eyebrows raised curiously. ‘How is he?’ she asked.

Hauser merely shook his head, unsure of what to say, what to do next, where to go.

‘There are spare cots in the Stumpfegger’s rooms if you wish to stay, Dr Hauser. I’m not sure it’s wise to go outside again — ’

Frau Jung’s words were interrupted by a raised voice coming from down the main corridor. The young woman stepped angrily out into the corridor to see what the disturbance was all about. A junior officer approached her, walking briskly down the main corridor holding a single sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Frau Jung, I have a telegram for the Fuhrer.’

‘He’s not to be disturbed. That’s what he told me.’

‘It’s in English, you speak English do you not?’

‘Well, yes, a little. Give it to me.’ She took the sheet of paper from the officer and read it briefly.

‘Oh my…’

‘What is it?’ asked the officer.

Traudl Jung looked up at him and snapped angrily. ‘It’s addressed to your leader, not you!’ She stared challengingly at the officer until he turned on his heels and headed back up the corridor towards the telephone exchange room. She angrily muttered something about the slipping standards of discipline around the Fuhrer as she turned smartly around and knocked lightly on the door to Hitler’s study. Hauser heard him call her in, and she disappeared inside.

Hauser remained where he was, standing in the small ante-room, staring at the door and straining to hear what was being said beyond. Both Frau Jung and Hitler must be talking quietly, whispering even. He could hear nothing.

A minute passed before finally the handle of the door turned, and the door swung open, revealing Adolf Hitler. He had changed his tunic to a similar one, freshly laundered. He smiled at Hauser.

Chapter 53

Mission Time: 21 Hours, 20 Minutes Elapsed

4.25 p.m., EST, fifty miles off the east coast of America

He awoke with a start.

‘Max, wake up, we’re nearly there,’ said Hans, jabbing his arm insistently.

Max felt the world quickly invade the warmth and comfort of his dream. It faded all too quickly. He hazily recalled images of a long dining table, Lucian beside him, his eyes as wide as saucers staring at the feast arrayed before him. It was a Christmas dinner, and Lucian must have been only seven, nearly eight; it had to have been Christmas 1933, perhaps ’34. He had been eighteen that year, and back from his first term at university. Max smiled; what a wonderful time that was, enjoying the novelty of his new life away from home. But he had been surprised at how much he’d missed Lucian during his first term. He had spent some of the money he had saved for several raucous nights down the local beer cellar to mark the end of term on a present that he knew would make that little porcelain face light up with ecstasy… a small army of painted soldier figurines. All through that meal he’d teased his brother about what surprise lay within his parcel beneath the Christmas tree.

‘Pieter said I should wake you up,’ Hans said apologetically.

He would have given anything for another five minutes back there, back then. ‘That’s all right, Hans,’ he said, stifling a yawn, ‘I need to prepare the bomb.’