End of Spies Alex Gerlis (cat reading book .TXT) 📖

as if the future looked especially bright. His only concern was Friedrich: his son wouldn’t cope.

Always his only concern: Friedrich.

The Obersturmführer was waiting in the reception area and led him to a black Daimler waiting with its engine running in front of the building on Wilhelmstrasse. Steiner was relieved to see that the curtains in the car weren’t drawn, and nor was there any kind of escort other than the officer and the driver, who greeted him with a ‘sir’, which boded well.

The Daimler headed south on Wilhelmstrasse and then west along Tiergarten Strasse. Steiner tried not to pay too much attention to the route, not least because that could mean very little these days. Berlin had been so badly damaged, it felt as if the city was being dismantled brick by brick – a neighbour had remarked to him that it seemed as if the roads were being pulled up like carpets, before he realised that he sounded disloyal and apologised profusely.

They carried on heading west, through the southern part of Charlottenburg, along Kanstrasse, before turning south, pausing by the roadside as the first Allied bombers of the night passed overhead. It didn’t surprise Steiner when they arrived at the Kleiner Wannsee, the smaller and more exclusive section of the lake. The whole area was dark, but he could tell where they were: a quiet stretch on the southern shore with some of the most expensive houses in Berlin. The Daimler pulled into the driveway of one of them, and the gates closed behind it.

It was a small villa, but perfectly appointed and decorated in exquisite taste. The walls were covered in a silk material with a modern print, and the rugs on the polished parquet flooring must have been worth a fortune. There was no doubt the design and decor were Bauhaus – that was apparent from the exterior, with its flat roof, bold curves and clean lines. Despite the regime’s disapproval, it was notable how the Bauhaus influence prevailed in Berlin. Steiner had little doubt this was one of the many Wannsee villas taken from Jewish owners; for a while he’d hoped he might be allocated one – looking out over the water would have been wonderful for his nerves – but was told they were reserved for families.

The Obersturmführer led him through the house to a lounge on the first floor that Steiner assumed looked over the lake. The large windows were covered in modern-looking blinds. Sprawled in a leather armchair was a beautiful girl in her early twenties wearing what appeared to be a cocktail dress with nothing underneath. She ignored Steiner but smiled sweetly at the young officer and waved her long cigarette holder in front of her like a conductor’s baton, appearing to beckon him towards her.

Martin Bormann bustled into the room and told the girl to go, patting her on the backside as she brushed past him. He ordered the officer to pour two cognacs – Not that bottle, you fool, that’s German brandy: I said cognac! – and then told him to leave and close the door behind him.

He’d already indicated that Steiner should take a seat on a large sofa; now he sat opposite him in the leather chair the young girl had been in. Over the years, Steiner had got to know most of Bormann’s mistresses, some of whom were quite sweet. They saw him as some kind of father figure, and he’d had to arrange abortions for most of them. He didn’t like Bormann’s main mistress very much but still felt obliged to ask after her.

‘And how is Manja, may I ask, Herr Reichsleiter?’

Bormann shrugged and pointed to the door through which the girl in the cocktail dress had recently left. ‘Not as lively as her.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘And Frau Bormann and the children?’

‘What do you think, Wolfgang, the whole fucking—’ He stood up shaking his head in despair, and brought the cognac bottle over. ‘I’m sorry, Wolfgang, I’ve hardly been in the Parteikanzlei in recent months. The Führer barely leaves the bunker these days and he relies on me more and more. With the way the war’s going, he doesn’t trust the generals any more. He hardly trusts anyone.’

‘I understand; in fact I—’

‘He was never the most trusting of people, which in many ways is one of his strengths, but now – you understand I’m speaking frankly with you, Wolfgang – now he’s not in a good state. Some would say he’s paranoid: he shouts and rants, and God knows what drugs he’s taking. He only listens to Eva, and she’s in a pretty bad state herself. The party won’t survive this. In fact,’ he leaned towards Steiner and a grin appeared on his face, ‘you could say the party’s over! Do you get it, the party’s over!’

He stood up and paced the room, laughing at his own joke until tears formed in his eyes. ‘The party’s over… I must remember that. I’d use it in the bunker if there was anyone there with a sense of humour, but it’s full of Bavarians and Austrians.’

Steiner stared at the floor. He’d never seen Bormann like this. He was normally a calm man, always in control; now he was bordering on the hysterical. And he’d aged, too. He was in his mid-forties and had always taken care over his appearance, but now he looked nearer sixty.

‘I’m sorry, Wolfgang, I forget you’re Austrian.’

‘Don’t worry, sir, I wasn’t offended.’

‘And how are you keeping?’

Steiner felt relaxed and allowed Bormann to fill his glass. It was clear this was a social occasion and his concerns had been misplaced. He muttered something about these being difficult times for everyone, but hopefully… He stopped because he could tell Bormann was staring at him but no longer smiling.

‘I understand you’ve been making arrangements, Wolfgang?’

Steiner hesitated, puzzled at what Bormann was getting at, and at the sudden change in mood.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘I said I understand you’ve been making arrangements.’

He realised