Secrets of the Last Nazi Read Online Free

joke of it.
    Myles smiled, then felt a shot of pain from his tibia.
    Frank looked apologetic again. ‘You better stay still,’ he said. ‘They’ll put something on it soon.’ Frank was about to tap Myles’ leg in sympathy but, when his hand was mid-air, he decided not to – just as both of them realised it would hurt.
    Frank looked embarrassed again, still out of his depth. Same old Frank - he’d always been that way, ever since Myles first met him.
    ‘Frank, can you get Helen for me?’
    ‘Your American woman? Yes, I’ll get her,’ nodded Frank.
    Myles watched as Frank limped off to make the call, then wondered exactly what it was about his brain scan which had interested the doctors so much.

Six
    Ministry of Foreign Affairs
    Central Moscow, Russia
    11.51 a.m., Moscow Standard Time (8.51 a.m. GMT)
----
    Z enyalena Androvsky stopped in the middle of Smolenskaya Square to admire the twenty-seven-storey building in front of her. She felt comforted by the Stalinist architecture: it was a steadfast monument to Soviet glory which had never compromised with capitalism; a single finger poking up into the Moscow skyline, telling the defeatists where to go.
    Then she felt her orange trousers swish in the wind, and saw the security men at the entrance to the Ministry react to her femininity. She flirted back. It felt good to be home.
    She was soon in her new office, back in the European Affairs Directorate after assignments in Cuba and Venezuela which had seemed more like distractions than proper foreign affairs work. Anonymous staff had already unpacked her effects, right down to the picture taken in 1987 of her father in his full uniform kissing goodbye to Zenyalena, then a gawky teenager. The photograph was the last image of Colonel Androvsky alive. Just ten days later, his helicopter had been eviscerated by a shoulder-launched surface-to-air missile, fired up by a lucky Mujahedeen guerrilla. Zenyalena had never blamed the Afghan who pressed the initiator. Responsibility for her father’s death, she was sure, lay with the cowardly organisation which had supplied the hardware: the CIA.
    Eager to work and to make her mark as quickly as she could, Zenyalena Androvsky spent just a few moments leafing through the general briefing pack which had been left for her. Then she pressed a buzzer.
    An older man entered, grey-suited and pale, refusing to notice Zenyalena’s bright clothing. ‘Ms Androvsky – welcome to your new post.’
    ‘Don’t tell me what I know already.’ She tossed the briefing pack to a distant part of her desk. ‘What’s happening in Europe today?’
    Trying not to undermine his new boss’s authority, the man reached into the discarded briefing pack to pull out a one-page list of news items. ‘Your headlines for today, Madam.’
    Zenyalena ignored the slight – her eyes were already devouring the list. Single-sentence headlines outlined events in Ukraine, Spain, Liechtenstein … she stopped when she reached an item two-thirds of the way down the page. ‘What’s this? And who was ‘Werner Stolz’?’
    The older man turned the page towards him to check the name, ‘Er, I can find out for you, Ms Androvsky.’
    ‘Please do – this morning.’
    It took only an hour for the pale man to return clutching a hefty pile of documents. Some looked even older than him, their yellowed edges straying out of the tattered cardboard.
    Zenyalena swiftly filleted the files. Within minutes she had spotted yet another opportunity to embarrass the Americans. She called her secretary back in.
    ‘Ludchovic. You read the stuff in these files about Lieutenant Kirov, right?’
    Ludchovic indicated that he had.
    ‘Tell me - how do you think he died?’
    The grey-suited man looked at Zenyalena’s desk as he answered. ‘On balance, I think the American report is probably true, Ms Androvsky. Soviet interrogators also experienced SS captives grabbing weapons and going wild.’
    Zenyalena’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, but