Authors: Jeffery Deaver
Ernst scanned the document and was able to make out the cordial words, which expressed an interest in seeing Germany’s recent developments in aviation.
The Leader continued. “This is why I have asked for you, Colonel. Some people think that it would be of strategic value to show the world our increasing strength in the air. I am inclined to feel this way myself. What do you think about a small air show in honor of Mr. Lindbergh, in which we demonstrate our new monoplane?”
Ernst was greatly relieved that the summons had not been about the Waltham Study. But the relief lasted only a moment. His concerns rose once again as he considered what he was being asked… and the answer he had to give. The “some people” Hitler was referring to was, of course, Hermann Göring.
“The monoplane, sir, ah…” The Me 109 by Messerschmitt was a superb killing machine, a fighter with a speed of three hundred miles per hour. There were other monowing fighters in the world but this was the fastest. More important, though, the Me 109 was of all-metal construction, which Ernst had long advocated because it allowed easy mass production and field repair and maintenance. Large numbers of the planes were necessary to support the devastating bombing missions that Ernst planned as precursors for any land invasion by the Third Empire’s army.
He cocked his head, as if considering the question, though he’d made his decision the instant he’d heard it. “I would be against that idea, my Leader.”
“Why?” Hitler’s eyes flared, a sign that a tantrum might follow, possibly accompanied by what was nearly as bad: an endless, ranting monologue about military history or politics. “Are we not allowed to protect ourselves? Are we ashamed to let the world know that we reject the third-class role the Allies keep trying to push us into?”
Careful, now, Ernst thought. Careful as a surgeon removing a tumor. “I’m not thinking of the backstabbers’ treaty of 1918,” Ernst answered, filling his voice with contempt for the Versailles accord. “I am thinking of how wise it might be to let others know about this aircraft. It’s constructed in a way that those familiar with aviation would spot as unique. They could deduce that it is being mass produced. Lindbergh could easily recognize this. He himself designed his
Spirit of St. Louis,
I believe.”
Avoiding eye contact with Ernst, Göring predictably said, “We must begin to let our enemies know our strength.”
“Perhaps,” Ernst said slowly, “a possibility would be to display one of the
prototypes
of the one-oh-nine at the Olympics. They were constructed more by hand than our production models and have no armament mounted. And they’re equipped with British Rolls-Royce engines. The world could then see our technological achievement yet be disarmed by the fact that we are using our former enemy’s motors. Which would suggest that any offensive use is far from our thoughts.”
Hitler said, “There is something to your point, Reinhard…. Yes, we will not put on an air show. And we will display the prototype. Good. That is decided. Thank you for coming, Colonel.”
“My Leader.” Bathed in relief, Ernst rose.
He was nearly to the door when Göring said casually, “Oh, Reinhard, a matter occurs to me. I believe a file of yours was misdirected to my office.”
Ernst turned back to examine the smiling, moonish face. The eyes, however, seethed from Ernst’s victory in the fighter debate. He wanted revenge. Göring squinted. “I believe it had to do with… what was it? The Waltham Study. Yes.”
God in heaven…
Hitler was paying no attention. He unfurled an architectural drawing and studied it closely.
“Misdirected?” Ernst asked. Filched by one of Göring’s spies was the true meaning of this word. “Thank you, Mr. Minister,” he said lightly. “I’ll have someone pick it up immediately. Good day to—”
But the deflection, of course, was ineffectual. Göring continued. “You were fortunate that the file was delivered to me. Imagine what some people might’ve thought to see Jew writing with your name on it.”
Hitler looked up. “What is this?”
Sweating prodigiously, as always, Göring wiped his face and replied, “The Waltham Study that Colonel Ernst has commissioned.” Hitler shook his head and the minister persisted. “Oh, I assumed our Leader knew about it.”
“Tell me,” Hitler demanded.
Göring said, “I know nothing about it. I only received—mistakenly, as I say—several reports written by those Jew mind doctors. One by that Austrian, Freud. Someone named Weiss. Others I can’t recall.” He added with a twist of his lips, “Those psychologists.”
In the hierarchy of Hitler’s hatred, Jews came first, Communists second and intellectuals third. Psychologists were particularly disparaged since they rejected racial science—the belief that race determined behavior, a cornerstone of National Socialist thought.
“Is this true, Reinhard?”
Ernst said casually, “As part of my job I read many documents on aggression and conflict. That’s what these writings deal with.”
“You’ve never mentioned this to me.” And with his characteristic instinct for sniffing out the merest hint of conspiracy Hitler asked quickly, “Defense Minister von Blomberg? Is he familiar with this study of yours?”
“No. There’s nothing to report at this time. As the name suggests it’s merely a study being conducted through Waltham Military College. To gather information. That’s all. Nothing may come of it.” Ashamed to be playing this game, he added, putting some of Goebbels’s sycophantic shine in his eyes, “But it is possible that the results will show us ways in which to create a much stronger, more efficient army to achieve the glorious goals you’ve established for our fatherland.”
Ernst could not tell if this bootlicking had any effect. Hitler rose and paced. He walked to an elaborate model of the Olympic stadium grounds and stared at it for a long moment. Ernst could feel his heartbeat thudding all the way to his teeth.
The Leader turned and shouted, “I wish to see my architect. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” his aide said and hurried to the ante-office.
A moment later a man entered the room, though it was not Albert Speer, but black-uniformed Heinrich Himmler, whose weak chin, diminutive physique and round black-rimmed glasses nearly made you forget that he was the absolute ruler of the SS, Gestapo and every other police force in the country.
Himmler gave his typical stiff salute and turned his adoring, blue-gray eyes toward Hitler, who responded with his own standard greeting, a limp over-the-shoulder flap.
The SS leader glanced around the room and concluded that he could share whatever news had brought him here.
Hitler gestured absently toward the coffee and chocolate service. Himmler shook his head. Usually in utter control—aside from the fawning looks sent the Leader’s way—the police chief today had an edginess about him, Ernst observed. “I have a security matter to report. An SS commander in Hamburg received a letter this morning, dated today. It was addressed to him by title, but not name. It claimed that some Russian was going to cause some ‘damage’ in Berlin in the next few days. At ‘high levels,’ it said.”
“Written by whom?”
“He described himself as a loyal National Socialist. But gave no name. It was found in the street. We don’t know any more about its origin.” Revealing perfectly white, even teeth, the man gave a wince, like a child disappointing his parent. He removed his glasses, wiped the lenses and replaced them. “Whoever sent it said that he was continuing to investigate and would send the man’s identity when he learned it. But we never heard anything further. Finding the note in the street suggests the sender was intercepted and perhaps killed. We might never learn more.”
Hitler asked, “The language? German?”
“Yes, my Leader.”
“‘Damage.’ What sort of damage?”
“We don’t know.”
“Ach, the Bolsheviks would love to disrupt our Games.” Hitler’s face was a mask of fury.
Göring asked, “You think it’s legitimate?”
Himmler replied, “It may be nothing. But tens of thousands of foreigners are passing through Hamburg these days. It’s possible someone learned of a plot and didn’t want to get involved so he wrote an anonymous note. I would urge everyone here to exercise particular caution. I will contact military commanders too and the other ministers. I’ve told all our security forces to look into the matter.”
His voice raw with anger, Hitler raged, “Do what you must! Everything! There will be no taint on our Games.” And, unnervingly, a fraction of a second later, his voice was calm and his blue eyes bright. He leaned forward to refill his cup with chocolate and place two zwieback biscuits on the saucer. “Please, now, you may all leave. Thank you. I need to consider some building matters.” He called to the aide in the doorway, “Where is Speer?”
“He will be here momentarily, my Leader.”
The men walked to the door. Ernst’s heart had resumed its normal, slow beat. What had just happened was typical of the way the inner circle of the National Socialist government worked. Intrigue, which could have disastrous results, simply vanished like crumbs swept over the door stoop. As for Göring’s plotting, well, he—
“Colonel?” Hitler’s voice called.
Ernst stopped immediately and looked back.
The Leader was staring at the mock-up of the stadium, examining the newly constructed train station. He said, “You will prepare a report on this Waltham Study of yours. In detail. I will receive it on Monday.”
“Yes, of course, my Leader.”
At the door Göring held his arm out, palm upward, letting Ernst exit first. “I will see that you receive those misdirected documents, Reinhard. And I do hope you and Gertrud will attend my Olympic party.”
“Thank you, Mr. Minister. I will make a point of being there.”
Friday evening, misty and warm, fragrant with the scent of cut grass, overturned earth and sweet, fresh paint.
Paul Schumann strolled by himself through the Olympic Village, a half hour west of Berlin.
He’d arrived not long before, after the complicated journey from Hamburg. It had been an exhausting day, yes. But invigorating too and he was stoked by the excitement of being in a foreign land—his ancestral home— and the anticipation of his mission. He had shown his press pass and been admitted to the American portion of the village—dozens of buildings housing fifty or sixty people each. He’d left his suitcase and satchel in one of the small guestrooms in the back, where he’d stay for a few nights, and was now walking through the spotless grounds. As he looked around the village he was amused. Paul Schumann was used to a lot rougher venues for sports— his own gym, for instance, which hadn’t been painted in five years and smelled of sweat and rotten leather and beer, no matter how energetically Sorry Williams scrubbed and mopped. The village was, however, just what the name suggested: a quaint town all its own. Set in a birch forest, the place was beautifully laid out in sweeping arcs of low, immaculate buildings, with a lake and curved paths and trails for running and walking, training fields and even its own sports arena.
According to the guidebook Andrew Avery had included in his satchel, the village had a customs office, stores, pressroom, a post office and bank, gas station, sporting goods store, souvenir stands, food shops and travel office.
The athletes were presently at the welcoming ceremony, which he’d been urged to attend by Jesse Owens, Ralph Metcalfe and the young boxer he’d sparred with. But now that he was in the locale of the touch-off, he needed to lay low. He’d begged off, saying he had to get some work done for interviews the next morning. He’d eaten in the dining hall—had one of the best steaks of his life—and after a coffee and a Chesterfield was now finishing his walk through the village.
The only thing troubling to him, considering the reason he was in the country, was that each nation’s dorm complex was assigned a German soldier, a “liaison officer.” In the U.S. facility this was a stern, young, brown-haired man in a gray uniform that seemed unbearably uncomfortable in the heat. Paul stayed as clear of him as possible; the contact here, Reginald Morgan, had warned Avery that Paul should be wary of anyone in uniform. He used only the back door to his dorm and made sure the guard never got a close look at him.
As he strolled along the swept sidewalk he saw one of the American track athletes with a young woman and baby; several team members had brought wives and other relatives with them. This put Paul in mind of the conversation with his brother last week, just before the
Manhattan
had sailed.
Paul had distanced himself from his brother and sister and their families for the past decade; he didn’t want to visit the violence and danger tainting his own life on theirs. His sister lived in Chicago and he got there rarely but he did see Hank sometimes. He lived on Long Island and ran the printing plant that was the descendant of their grandfather’s. He was a solid husband and father, who didn’t know for sure what his brother did for a living, except that he associated with tough guys and criminals.
Although Paul hadn’t shared any personal information with Bull Gordon or the others in The Room, the main reason he’d decided to agree to come to Germany for this job was that wiping his record clean and getting all that scratch might let him reconnect with the family, which he’d dreamed about doing for years.
He’d had a shot of whisky, then another, and finally picked up the phone and called his brother at home. After ten minutes of nervous small talk about the heat wave and the Yankees and Hank’s two boys, Paul had taken the plunge and asked if Hank might be interested in having a partner at Schumann Printing. He quickly reassured, “I’m not having anything to do with my old crowd anymore.” Then he added that he could bring $10,000 into the business. “Legit dough. One hundred percent.”
“Mother of pearl,” Hank said. And they’d both laughed at the expression, a favorite of their father’s.
“There’s one problem,” Hank added gravely.
Paul understood that the man was about to say no, thinking of his brother’s shady career.
But the elder Schumann added, “We’ll have to buy a new sign. There’s not enough room for ‘Schumann
Brothers
Printing’ on the one I got.”