Chapter Three.

Köthener Bridge was battered, but was still standing. The rail bridge next to it was badly damaged but seemed to have shielded the road bridge from the worst of the shelling. The road bridge had some of its iron railing work missing, but the roadway looked undamaged. Nonetheless, would it still hold the five-thousand, eight-hundred kilogrammes weight of the half-track? There was only one way to find out.

Willi carefully guided the vehicle under the sagging rail bridge and turned off Am Karlsbad onto the threshold of the bridge. As he did so; a burst of small-arms fire came from the direction of the Schöneberger Strasse Bridge three hundred metres further east along the Landwehrkanal. Everyone ducked as the bullets clanged and ricocheted off the angled armour. Willi floored the accelerator and sent the half-track howling across the bridge as the Soviets rattled off another hail of bullets in the direction of the fleeing vehicle.

Köthener Strasse was a wasteland. Erhard Schneider gazed on the devastation with disbelief as Willi sent the bucking, jolting vehicle crunching through a sea of ruins, fallen masonry, and broken glass; ploughing across abandoned Volkssturm trenches, shell holes, and craters. Once, this had been a busy shopping street leading up to Leipziger Platz and had been lined with five-storey buildings. Now, the tall masonry cliffs glowered down through countless gaping, frameless windows, with large, raw gaps where walls had collapsed inwards. Even the tram lines had melted in places and the asphalt had boiled like lava. The roar of the Maybach motor and the singing, grating tracks echoed back and forth across this chasm of destruction. Ahead of them loomed the gaunt, fire-gutted carcass of Das Haus Vaterland; with gaping shell-holes in its end wall; roofless and windowless, with its great end rotunda now little more than a fire-blackened, skeletal shell.

Stresemannstrasse still had a few buildings standing on the north-eastern side; but, they too, were towering, windowless shells with roof beams open to the sky. A little to the east, lay Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. On the corner; the curved façade of Das Völkerkundemuseum still stood; but next door; Erhard glimpsed that the Kunstbibliothek... the State Art Library building, was a gutted shell. Hopefully, the Gestapo headquarters next door to it at number eight had also been destroyed. He held no sympathy for the murderous bastards who shared the SS uniform, and "worked" there.

As Willi turned into Stresemannstrasse; the black-and-white-striped barricade pole of another Feldgendarmerie roadblock came into view, outside the gaunt remains of the Potsdamer Bahnhof. A large, helmeted Stabsfeldwebel raised his arm for them to halt. Erhard stood up in the half-track and disdainfully eyed him up and down. As the half-track lurched to a standstill, the thick-set Stabsfeldwebel rumbled menacingly towards them. He was a typical Feldjägerkorps "Heldenklau"... "Hero-taker." His Feldgendarmerie gorget glittered evilly as he approached the vehicle. His squad Feldwebel; a rat-faced individual with hands that looked as if they were made for tying a hangman's knot in a rope, followed his boss, nonchalantly cradling a cocked MP40. The Stabsfeldwebel planted himself splay-legged alongside the half-track, stuck out his jaw, and, with a malicious grin; snapped,

'Leaving the treadmill than? Off on a little trip in this gondola?'

His face hardened, and his black, beady eyes glittered.

'Your papers! Hurry up, or you'll all be swinging from the lamp posts!'

As he was about to reply; Karyn tugged at Erhard's tunic and showed him the SD identity card, silently motioning that he should sit back down. His eyes widened momentarily, and moved aside so that she might stand. He then looked at the Stabsfeldwebel as though he was something that had crawled out of a nearby sewer, and smiled. It was one of those sort of smiles that cause icy fingers to tip-toe up and down the spine. Karyn stood up, and gazed at the Stabsfeldwebel. Her blue eyes were as cold as slivers of ice.

He glared at her and snarled,

'So; you've brought your own snappers as well! Everybody out, and line up against the wall!'

Nobody moved. The rat-faced, squad Feldwebel grinned, and raised his MP40. The pretty blonde girl spoke. Her tone of voice was enough to freeze blood.

'I take it you have a suitably valid reason for delaying our assignment. Stabsfeldwebel?'

The big Stabsfeldwebel hesitated. It was written all over his face that he couldn't quite make up his mind as to whether he should snap to attention and rattle off a report, or just scream out...

'Shut the fuck up, bitch. Who the fuck do you think you are talking to?'

Years of experience... firstly as a pre-war Schupo; and then, his service in the Feldgendarmerie, had taught him that behind civilian clothes, the most frighteningly unbelievable things could lurk, just waiting for something like this to pounce on. The tone in her voice was horribly reminiscent of the shadowy corridors of "Graue Elend"... "Grey Misery"; the chilling nickname for the old Polizei Präsidium on Alexanderplatz.

Her next movement made up his mind for him. She reached out over the side of the half-track and waved an identity card held delicately between her two fingers, under his nose. His expression changed in an instant. The SD identity card identified her as Doktor Karyn Helle von Seringen; holding honorary equivalent rank of SS-Standartenführer, attached to Persönlichen Stabes Reichsführer-SS… the Personal Staff of ReichsFührer-SS Himmler.

His face reddened and his adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed frantically in an attempt to get some sort of lubrication to his suddenly dried-out vocal chords. He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him short.

'Seeing as how you are so obviously bored with this tedious roadblock that you have to entertain yourselves by interfering with anything that moves, and throwing unsavoury insults at German women; I have a wonderful idea. I shall be meeting with the ReichsFührer-SS in a little while. I shall suggest that he gives you, and your Iron Cross candidates a little excitement by sending you down to the Landwehrkanal where they are blooming in abundance. Now, kindly get your roadblock out of our way so that we might continue with our assignment.'

Stabsfeldwebel Blohm stood, as if turned to stone. His mouth dropped; almost as if he didn’t quite believe what he had just heard. Then the policeman's self-preservation instinct took over. He rocked to and fro on his heels like a sapling in a gale, turned, and drew in a huge breath. His mouth opened and an almost animal scream welled up from the very depths of his lungs.

'Get that fucking barrier down, you lazy bums. You're flapping about like a flock of castrated parrots in a fucking whorehouse!'

The barricade was dismantled in double-quick time. Stabsfeldwebel Blohm stood rigidly at attention; his arm outstretched in a perfect Hitlergruss, as the half-track grumbled away towards Leipziger Platz.

He gave his men a baleful glare. What a bunch of useless assholes. Not one combat decoration among them. If that fucking bitch carried out her threat, and they ended up facing Ivan; within five minutes they would probably all end up as little more than nasty red smears across some street or wall down by the Landwehrkanal. It was time to get the fuck out of Berlin. The squad abandoned the roadblock; piled into their Adler W61 one-and-a-half-ton lorry, and rumbled off down Stresemannstrasse towards Hallesches Tor with the intention of crossing the Landwehrkanal by the Belle-Alliance Bridge and disappearing to the south. They made it as far as the burned-out hulk of the Kaufhaus Hertie on the corner of Belle-Alliance-Strasse and Blücher Platz, just beyond the Landwehrkanal and the badly-damaged S-Bahn bridge.

Nineteen-year-old Starshiy Serzhant Tamara Lukanova of the 1st Belorussian Front Command heard the Adler truck howling across Belle-Alliance-Brück and glanced out of the ragged void that had once been one of the large square-arched windows on the third floor of the gutted, and roofless Department store. She was acting as an artillery spotter for the guns ranged out to the east. She put down her binoculars and wireless microphone, and reached for the demolition satchel charge by her side. Grasping the wooden carrying handle firmly; she freed the cord that activated the igniter, and waited.

As the truck approached below her vantage point she pulled the igniter-cord, counted to five and, impressively for a petite, delicately-featured blonde; lobbed the bulky, three-and-a-half-kilogramme satchel charge down into the back of the truck. She timed it perfectly. The Adler truck simply disintegrated under the huge explosion. The four Feldgendarmes in the back of the truck disappeared in a pink cloud; transformed into blurred phantoms of crushed bone and bloody flesh; torn to shreds by the powerful explosion and splattered across the walls of the ruins on the other side of Belle-Alliance-Strasse.

The massive blast and shrapnel debris ripped through the canvas hood of the driving cab punching Stabsfeldwebel Blohm and his rat-faced Feldwebel out through the windscreen and over the sloping bonnet; ending up as a shredded, bloody purée of pulped flesh scattered for thirty or so, metres along the shell-pocked asphalt of Belle-Alliance-Strasse.

Willi brought the half-track to a standstill on the edge of Potsdamer Platz, under the shadow of the ruined and roofless Pschorr-Haus tower. Across the rubble-strewn Platz, the buildings on Potsdamer Strasse were little more than skeletal, shattered walls teetering over towering mounds of rubble. Directly in front of them, the modernistic, ugly Columbus-Haus; battered, scarred, and smoke-blackened; still stood as a familiar landmark, but there was little else that was recognisable. The debris of the bitter fighting as the first Soviet shock troops punched through the defenders littered the broad Platz. Wrecked vehicles, mangled corpses, and discarded weapons were scattered amongst the torn up tramlines and shell craters. Across in front of Columbus-Haus, a battery of smashed 88mm Flak guns sagged on their cruciform gun carriages; muzzles pointing forlornly at the ground. On the opposite corner of Leipziger Platz, the Palast Hotel was a roofless, windowless shell.

Erhard Schneider peered cautiously over the edge of the sloping armour and surveyed the devastation. He ducked back down and turned to Karyn.

'It looks quiet enough, but you can never tell. Are you sure you want to chance it out there? You never know if Ivan might be prowling about in the ruins.'

She nodded.

'I have to get to Göring's villa across on Leipziger Platz to see if the artefact that I am seeking is still there. It's a direct order from Himmler, himself.'

Erhard studied her for a little while. This blonde certainly had some guts. What she was proposing was bloody dangerous. He nodded.

'OK then. We'll cover you until you get to the Torhäuschen; then, you're on your own. We have to sneak up to the Reich Chancellery by way of Voss Strasse. By the sound of the gunfire, Ivan is already getting close to Charlottenburger Chaussee, so we should be all right.'

Karyn nodded, and moved to the rear of the half-track. Erhard stood up behind the MG42 and swung it around to cover her. He nodded again to her...

'OK, Go!'

She heaved up the locking lever of the rear access door and jumped out. Crouching for a moment, she glanced around; then sprinted for the Potsdamer Torhäuschen... the pair of matching, Doric-style stone gate-houses; one on either side of the entrance to the octagonal Leipziger Platz. Two large, curved-roof trailers backed up by wide piles of rubble and wooden shutters were pushed up against each of the fronts of the guardhouses, creating a rudimentary barricade into Leipziger Platz and leaving only a small gap for her to run through. As she reached, and took cover under the pillared portico of the left-hand guardhouse, she heard the half-track motor rev up, followed by the clatter and crunch of the tracks over the debris as it rumbled away through the ruins of Hermann-Göring Strasse, on its way towards the Reich Chancellery.

She glanced around. Nothing moved. Leipziger Platz was wrecked. Most of the buildings on either side of the octagonal square still stood, but they were all windowless and roofless. Once, the central roadway had been lined with statues. Most were gone, but in places, their two-metre-high plinths remained. The trees were blasted and charred, and the huge Kaufhaus Wertheim stood, brooding and roofless at the end of the square, with its four great, entrance arches gaping forlorn and deserted. Opposite Wertheim's, the Prussian State Ministry still stood; its stonework blackened and gouged by shrapnel.

Göring's sumptuous villa at No.11a, Leipziger Platz, was situated in the grounds of the Prussian State Ministry according to the report she had been given. It had originally been the mansion of the Prussian Minister of Trade, and Göring had used it as his official office in his capacity as Prime Minister. The report was a transcript of the directions given by some previous visitor to the villa...

"You go in through the entrance of the old Herrenhaus, and after being marched by a member of his Guard Battalion "Hermann Göring" through endless halls you find yourself in a garden of four or five hectares, in the middle of which, stands his Villa."

The Herrenhaus was relatively undamaged. One of its three wings was battered and roofless; all the windows had been blown in by the blast of the bombs that had fallen in, and around Wertheim's and the Voss Strasse area; but most of the building had survived. Entering the mausoleum-like Prussian pile, Karyn cautiously picked her way through the debris, seeking a way out to the garden. The whole place seemed deserted. The long corridors were becoming dark and oppressive the deeper she went into its interior. Anyone might be lying in wait any one of the countless hiding places in this dark labyrinth. Carefully, she drew the silenced Mauser Bolo that she had retained from her Siberian adventure, and flicked down the safety lever knob. The whole place was a creepy monument to Prussian Military arrogance, not helped by the corridors echoing if she accidentally stepped on the scatterings of broken glass and plaster that littered the marble floors.

At last she found her way out into the gardens. It was hard to imagine that this churned-up, shell-cratered tract of land that stretched down to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse had once been laid out to pristine manicured lawns and ornamental trees; the disfigured and shrapnel-scarred survivors of which, now stood forlorn against the backdrop of the damaged old Berlin Judicial Court building that Göring had turned into the Luftwaffe Officer's Club known as "Das Haus der Flieger"... "The House of the Pilots"; and had once been witness to the extravagant soirées that the Reichsmarschall had frequently held there. Speer had arranged for the villa to be converted to Göring's specifications, including a tennis court, tea house; Pergola and swimming pool; all set within its private gardens. The villa was rumoured to be connected to the huge Air Ministry building on Wilhelmstrasse by a subterranean tunnel.

Göring's villa still stood; although it was roofless, windowless and scarred; and the ostentatious circular tower in the south-west corner was little more than a blasted, jagged stump. The whole place looked to be abandoned and deserted. As she approached the grandiose turreted monstrosity, she glanced across towards Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. She saw that the grim Gestapo Headquarters at number eight, was badly bomb and shell-scarred, and the Reichsführung SS; that the Berliners had nicknamed the SS-Haus, next door at number nine, appeared to be little more than teetering walls held together with a tangled, blackened lattice of collapsed floors and drunkenly-angled roofing joists.

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Cautiously entering the villa, she found an empty, rambling, white marble edifice with drinking and smoking rooms, several suites of kitchens, and a den that Göring had provided for his pet lion cubs at mezzanine level; while circular dining rooms, conservatories, drawing rooms, reception rooms, and hunting-trophy rooms took up the ground floor, along with Göring’s cavernous, colonnaded study. Four huge sets of glassless French window frames opened onto the remains of the terrace and gardens. The villa had been stripped bare. All of the Reichsmarschall's sumptuous furnishings and extensive treasures had been removed. Even the famed Meissen door-knobs and finger-plates had been carefully removed from all of the doors. The villa was an empty, sepulchral shell that echoed hollowly as she cautiously made her way along the great central hall. Somewhere, a distant door banged to and fro in the faint breeze that prowled the ghost of Göring's personal, earth-bound Valhalla.

There was nothing here to find. She turned to retrace her steps, and saw a man appear at the end of the hall. He looked to be about seventy, and was dressed, incongruously for the present surroundings, much like the archetypal English Butler... black morning jacket, striped trousers and stiff, winged collar.

His voice echoed down the hall.

'May I be of assistance, Madam?'

His hands were clasped behind his back in the classical servile stance... or perhaps he was concealing a weapon. You never could be completely certain of anyone in this madhouse that Berlin had now become. She approached him cautiously; the silenced Mauser Bolo held behind her back in a mirror image to his stance... but ready for any sudden movement.

He moved. She stiffened... but he merely brought his hands from behind his back and clasped them in front of himself. He was not armed. He waited patiently for her answer. She studied him. She could sense no hostility; merely the desire to be of service to this guest in his Master's former place of residence.

She spoke.

'I am Doktor von Seringen of the Ahnenerbe. A few years ago; the ReichsFührer-SS loaned the Reichsmarschall a particularly impressive Garnet gemstone. The ReichsFührer-SS is now intent on recovering all artefacts loaned out by the Ahnenerbe to the Party hierarchy in order to prevent them from being looted by the Soviets.'

The old man's rheumy blue eyes brightened in recognition.

'Ah! You must be referring to the "Der Rote Reiter"… 'The Red Horseman.'

Karyn gave him a puzzled look.

'The Red Horseman? It was never given a specific name.'

The old man chuckled.

'I am Franz Papendorf; the villa steward. The Reichsmarschall was besotted by the gemstone. He said that he had read somewhere that a big, clear Garnet like that one, was believed to contain a flare of lightning inside it if it was held up to the light. He swore that he had seen something flicker in its depths on several occasions.'

As he mentioned this; Karyn shivered. According to the ancient volume she had translated; this was what was alleged to have been seen by the sword-maker as he poured the last of the metal into the mould to encase this monstrosity. It was also what the toolmaker at Krupps, in Essen had seen when he inadvertently released this malignancy into the World back in 1939.

Franz Papendorf continued.

'The Reichsmarschall decided that the gemstone deserved a name. He toyed with Germanic mythology, the Nordic Gods... even "Der Ring des Nibelungen"; but in the end he decided that, because of its colour; he would use the name of the Red Horseman of The Apocalypse. Unfortunately, he couldn't find any reference to the name; so, in typical "Unser Hermann" fashion; he decided that an apt name would simply be "Der Rote Reiter"… "The Red Horseman".

The old man gave a sly smile...

'What he didn't realise, was that the Revelation of John had originally been a purely Jewish composition and was changed into a Christian work by the insertion of those sections that deal with Christian subjects; and that the main apocalypse actually belongs to Jewish apocalyptic literature. So; the Seven Seals and The Red Horseman are derived from Hebrew; and "Lametta Hermann"... Tinsel Hermann, gave his favourite trinket a name that's as Jewish as a Synagogue! Now, that's what I call irony!'

Karyn tried not to smile.

'Is the Garnet still here?'

He shook his head.

'The villa is closed up. All the Reichsmarschall's possessions were loaded into trucks for transportation down to Obersalzberg. The Reichsmarschall is at Karinhalle, overseeing the closing-up of the estate. I remained here to close up the premises; with instructions to follow on to Karinhalle later when all was secure. Unfortunately, the Russians were quicker, and we are now trapped here.'

Karyn nodded.

'So, who else is here? You'll need to move soon. More Soviets are advancing from the south; and soon we'll all be trapped.'

The old man flinched as the artillery shells began whistling in and exploding somewhere around the Unter den Linden.

'I am here with my wife and one chambermaid. We can sit it out in the villa bunker.'

The shells were creeping closer. The walls of the villa trembled as each salvo struck. Karyn glanced out of the window. The barrage was creeping inexorably across from the Reich Air Ministry garden on the corner of Wilhelmstrasse, and would soon be exploding in the garden of the villa. Karyn thought fast. She pulled the old man away from the window as a stray shell exploded nearby and peppered the outer wall with flying stones and pieces of shrapnel. They wouldn't last five minutes out there. She looked at the frightened old man.

'Is the tunnel to the Air Ministry building still sound?'

He nodded.

'As far as I know; and it leads through to the underground motor pool garage. There might still be a vehicle there for you to use.'

She stared at him.

'Then, why haven't you escaped?'

He smiled sadly.

'None of us has ever learned to drive... and where would we run to? You go. We'll stay in the bunker.'

She saw that she would never be able to change his mind; so she quietly asked,

'Where would I go? What would be the safest place in Berlin?'

He shrugged.

'Apart from the Führerbunker under the Chancellery; my guess would be the Gefechtstürm... the battery tower of the Flakturm complex in the Tiergarten.'

He gave her a tired smile.

'We're all a little too old to go shell-dodging. Don't worry; we'll be all right, here. Now, let me show you the way down to the passageway to the Air Ministry.'

By the flickering light of an old hurricane lamp, he led her through the fading, and chipped marble opulence of the ostentatious villa that Göring had deemed fit for "Die letzte Renaissance Man"... "The Last Renaissance Man"... as he liked to style himself. They descended a sweeping flight of stairs to the huge basement, and then, two more flights of stairs to a small chamber; one wall of which was a massive steel bulkhead with a heavy, vault-like, blast-proof door.

Franz Papendorf carefully put down the hurricane lamp and grasped a large, spoked wheel protruding from the door. As he began turning the wheel, the chamber echoed with the metallic rasp of bolts being withdrawn. He pulled on the wheel and the door swung smoothly open revealing a long, dark passageway. He smiled.

'Hydraulic damping. A child could open it; but there's no electricity so you will need this.'

He handed her a flashlight, and smiled.

'Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein Doktor. I wish you Good luck.'

She gazed at the tired old man who was stubbornly convinced that the bunker under such a politically significant target to the Soviets as Göring's villa would be his salvation.

She had to try just one last time.

'Are you sure that you won't come with me, Herr Papendorf?'

He shook his head.

'No. We'll be safe here.'

She nodded, and stepped through the door into the arched passageway; switching on the flashlight as he closed the heavy door behind her, slamming it with a heavy, metallic thud. An eerie chill was apparent to her within moments of entering the echoing tunnel… The chill of misery. This subterranean short-cut from the villa to the Air Ministry had been constructed by forced labourers rounded up by the Organization Todt... mainly Polish and Russian prisoners of war who had been treated no better than slaves; and without doubt, many had died down here.

The diffused beam from the "Cats eye" lens of the flashlight barely penetrated the soft, inky darkness. As Franz Papendorf had said; without electricity, the egg-shaped lights encased in steel frames spaced along the walls were all extinguished in the long, grey concrete passageway; but special phosphorous paint strips and arrows marked the passageway direction in the dense, subterranean darkness. It was a dank, and claustrophobic journey of about six-hundred-metres, with a low, arched ceiling and thin, stale air.

The earth thumped and groaned with the echoing rhythm of the exploding shells, some eight metres above her head. The walls were damp; with scattered patches of mould growing alongside the carefully stencilled "Rauchen Verboten!"... "Smoking is forbidden" signs. Almost all of Berlin was built on unstable ground, with sandy soil and a high water table. Sooner or later the whole passageway would succumb to the wet sand thrusting against the outer wall of the concrete lining. With the continuous thump and creaking caused by the exploding shells; Karyn fervently hoped that it would be later, rather that sooner.

The wan beam of the flashlight revealed another steel door at the end of the passageway. This one was fitted with a lever with which to open it. The word: "Ausgang"... "Exit" was stencilled above the door. On the surrounding steel bulkhead was stencilled the warning: "Achtung Stufen!"..."Attention Steps!" She paused, and shone the faint light of the flashlight down to the floor. Two concrete steps - just enough to break an ankle in the impenetrable darkness! In spite of the cloying, damp atmosphere of the passage, the bulkhead door lever was not difficult to lift. She moved to the side of the door where she would be hidden from view from anyone who might be on the other side when it opened; carefully swung the heavy door open on squeaking hinges, and was faced with a large, underground basement of dark corners, shadow-casting pillars; echoes, and disturbing noises. It was a really creepy place; not helped by the dim, red emergency lighting; but it appeared to be deserted.

Cautiously, she began to walk across the concrete floor. Her every footstep echoed hollowly... then, from out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a movement over by the distant wall to her left. Quickly, she ducked behind the nearest pillar and drew the silenced Mauser Bolo. Footsteps echoed on the bare concrete and a lengthening, vague shadow crept across the floor towards her. The footsteps came closer. The shadow gradually lengthened, gathered substance; and came level with the pillar.

Karyn took a deep breath, raised the Mauser in the stable, double-handed pistol grip, and stepped out. She was confronted by a very young, frightened-looking Luftwaffe Gefreiter clutching an MP40 machine pistol. He looked so frightened that he might accidentally squeeze the trigger at any moment. It was fortunate that the muzzle of the weapon was pointing towards the floor.

She slowly raised the muzzle of the Mauser which had been aimed directly between his eyes, towards the concrete roof; and, assuming her best official voice, said...

'Rührt Euch!'... 'Stand at ease!'

He slowly let the MP40 drop to his side. Lowering her Mauser completely; she produced her SD Identity card. He took it from her; read it, and stiffened noticeably. She studied him. He was no more than eighteen. He had probably never encountered an SD Identity card before. She decided to be gentle with him.

'Gefreiter; I am on important business of The Reich. I have just come from the Reichsmarschall's villa by way of the underground passage. I must get to the Flakturm complex in the Tiergarten before the Soviets cut off the Zitadelle sector. Are there any serviceable vehicles remaining in the motor pool?'

He looked startled. He had been told to stand at ease, which meant no talking until permission was given by a superior. But, anyone carrying an SD identity card had to be a superior; and her question must be her permission to speak... and besides which; what could she do? Put him on report? That really didn't carry much of a threat these days, compared with what was tightening its stranglehold on the doomed city.

He nodded; being very careful that he observed the correct Military Etiquette.

'Fräulein Doktor; request permission to speak.'

The pretty blonde with the dangerous pass nodded her assent.

'Fräulein Doktor; there are several vehicles available. Three Staff Mercedes, three Kübelwagens; two amphibious Schwimmwagens, and a four-wheel-drive Sanitäts-Staffeln Daimler-Benz; but it's painted up as a Rotes-Kreuz vehicle... all white with red crosses. You'd be a sitting duck in that one.'

Karyn nodded.

'Thank you, Gefreiter. Show me where these vehicles are parked.'

The young Gefreiter snapped to attention and directed her across the deserted basement towards the motor pool. The vast, seven-storey Air Ministry building had been slightly damaged by air raids, but, as yet, had not been systematically bombarded by the Soviet artillery. Broken shards of glass and rubble littered the darkened passages, and wind whistled through countless broken windows, causing doors in the distance to slam back and forth. As they moved through the bowels of the building; Karyn saw that the cellars were full of unsupervised Luftwaffe personnel playing cards, getting drunk, and generally doing nothing.

A well-fed, overweight Luftwaffe Hauptfeldwebel stuck his head out of one of the cellars and demanded to know what she was doing. She looked at him; noticing his lack of operational decorations. A typical Papiersoldat... a pen-pusher. He swaggered up to her and pushed his face into hers. His breath stank of sausage and beer. She merely held her SD Indentify card under his nose and smiled coldly.

'If you really are interested; just give the ReichsFührer-SS a call on Berlin 12-00-40. I'm sure he will be overjoyed at your efficient concern regarding security, and will recommend that you and your heroes be sent to strengthen the security of the Zitadelle sector immediately.'

She thought that the fat Hauptfeldwebel was about to have a heart attack. His face and jowls turned bright crimson and his eyes began watering. He turned, and scuttled away back into his cellar, slamming the metal door so swiftly, one would think that the “Walküren” were tapping him gently on the shoulder and whispering into his ear that Odin had decided that it was his turn to be gathered up and born away to Valhalla.

The young Gefreiter led her to the motor pool. The vehicles were lined up neatly along the far wall. Just as he had said; three gleaming black, staff Mercedes and a collection of VW Kübelwagens. Parked incongruously in the midst of them was the Sanitäts-Staffeln Daimler-Benz G5; gleaming white, even in the dim light; and clearly emblazoned with large, unmistakeable Red Crosses. If any vehicle was likely to get through to the Tiergarten it would be this one. The young SS-Scharführer, Erhard Schneider who had brought her from Lichterfelde had remarked that the Soviet front-line troops were well-disciplined and well-behaved. It was just possible that if she ran into any of them, they would respect a Red Cross vehicle and let her pass unmolested.

She turned to the young Gefreiter.

'Sehr Gut. Where are the ignition keys kept?'

He drew himself up.

'Fräulein Doktor; request permission to speak.'

Karyn nodded.

'They are already in the ignition switches. It is standard procedure, Fräulein Doktor.'

She smiled.

'Thank you, Gefreiter. You may return to your duties. Your assistance will be mentioned to the relevant Authorities. Wegtreten!... Dismissed!'

He snapped to attention; crashing his heel-irons together, and giving her a polished Hitlergruss. He smartly took two steps backwards, Ordered, and shouldered Arms; about faced, and marched back towards the corridor. Karyn checked out the Sanitäts-Staffeln canvas-hooded Daimler-Benz G5. Just as he had said; the keys were in the ignition. The rear seat was piled high with Verbandkasten... green-painted, metal First-aid boxes; of the type used to equip military vehicles. She snapped open the flush-mounted closing clasps of one of the boxes, pulled out the Deutsches Rotes Kreuz armband, and slipped it onto her left arm. Behind the rear seat she discovered a DRK medium-grey Stahlhelm with the conspicuous Eagle clutching a Red Cross insignia. It might come in handy if there was any shrapnel flying around.

OK; so did the vehicle have any petrol? She switched on the ignition. The fuel contents gauge needle flicked up to the full mark. She glanced across the controls. The only difference to a normal vehicle was a lever marked that it operated rear-wheel steering. It was in the "Locked" position. She pressed the starter button. The two litre, four cylinder Mercedes engine rumbled into life; echoing around the underground motor pool. She selected first gear in the four-speed gearbox; released the parking brake, and pressed the accelerator. The Daimler-Benz seemed as though it would be easy enough to drive, despite its size. The exit from the motor pool was a ramp leading to the rear of the Air Ministry building. Emerging into the daylight; Karyn saw that she was on a wide concrete area that ran the length of the vast building and separated it from the once-tree-studded open area that stretched as far as the Herrenhaus and the Haus der Flieger.

The concrete access road ran down to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse; emerging almost exactly at the centre of the long, pillared wall separating numbers eight and nine on the opposite side of the road. Neither building had fared well. Gestapo Headquarters at number eight was battered and scarred. Not one of the windows in the ugly building still had a pane of glass intact; one of the three jutting dormer windows to the left of the ugly, gargantuan Baroque central projection, and the left-hand top of the roof were extensively wrecked; and the walls were scarred with shrapnel holes. The wrought-iron double gates to the immediate left of the building dangled forlornly from their twisted and smashed hinges. All the lower windows had been bricked up except for weapon slots, and the pavement outside was choked with mounds of rubble. The French volunteers of SS "Charlemagne" had defended this dreadful mausoleum to brutality for three days before withdrawing to the Air Ministry buildings. The Reichsführung SS… the former Hotel Prinz Albrecht farther along the road at number nine was little more than a teetering shell of broken spears of masonry and dangling, collapsed floors.

At the end of the access road to the Air Ministry; Karyn stopped and consulted the street map she had discovered in the glove box. She needed to stay as far away from Charlottenburger Chaussee as possible. The most-likely safe route would be Potsdamer Platz, Bellevue Strasse; around the Rolandbrunnen statue at Skagerakplatz, and straight along Tiergartenstrasse to the junction with Friedrich-Wilhelm-Strasse. Then it would be a cautious drive down to the Landwehrkanal to find a bridge that they hadn't yet blown up.