“You did well,” Bormann said. “You’re a fine pilot.”

“Let me get your bag for you.”

Bormann got down to the ground and Neumann passed him the bag. Bormann said, “Such a pity you recognized me,” and he took the silenced Mauser from his greatcoat pocket and shot him through the head.

The man standing beside the Kubelwagen was a naval officer and wore the white-topped cap affected by U-boat Commanders. He was smoking a cigarette and he dropped it to the ground and stamped on it as Bormann approached.

“General Strasser?”

“That’s right,” Bormann told him.

“Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel.” Friemel gave him a half-salute. “Commanding U180.”

Bormann tossed his bag into the rear of the Kubelwagen and eased himself into the passenger seat. As the other man got behind the wheel, the Reichsleiter said, “Are you ready for sea?”

“Absolutely, General.”

“Good, then we’ll leave at once.”

“At your orders, General,” Friemel said and drove away.

Bormann took a deep breath, he could smell the sea on the wind. Strange, but instead of feeling tired he was full of energy and he lit a cigarette and leaned back, looking up at the stars and remembering Berlin only as a bad dream.

1992

1

Just before midnight it started to rain as Dillon pulled in the Mercedes at the side of the road, switched on the interior light and checked his map. Klagenfurt was twenty miles behind, which meant that the Yugoslavian border must be very close now. There was a road sign a few yards further on and he took a torch from the glove compartment, got out of the car and walked toward it, whistling softly, a small man, no more than five feet four or five with hair so fair that it was almost white. He wore an old black leather flying jacket with a white scarf at his throat and dark blue jeans. The sign showed Fehring to the right and five kilometers further on. He showed no emotion, simply took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it with an old-fashioned Zippo lighter and returned to the car.