The Master Sniper

“I’m sure a great miracle will happen here,” Repp said, taking great pleasure in the phrase.

Vollmerhausen, fascinated, could see the thing he worked in his fingers. It was a small black cube, metallic, with a spindle through it. But that’s all.

“Miracles cannot be requisitioned like machine pistols, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer.”

“You’ll do your best, I’m certain.”

“Of course, sir. But forty kilos is so little.”

“I just want to explain the importance here. I want to emphasize it. Our actions are only part of a larger campaign, involving agents in other countries even. Still, we are the most important; we are the fulcrum. Do you understand? Great and heavy responsibilities have descended upon us. This is a privilege rarely given soldiers. Think about it.”

He paused, to let the grave information sink in.

“And so for the test,” he said.

“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer,” Vollmerhausen said.

“I think I’ve found an unlimited supply of targets for you. A whole world full of targets. I’ve just had word from Berlin. One hundred miles north of here, the Americans have crossed the Rhine. They’re on our soil, Herr Ingenieur-Doktor. It seems that I must demand that you quickly find a way to knock those ten kilos off Vampir. And then you and I are going hunting.”

The asshead Schaeffer snickered.

Repp was smiling.

After they were gone, Repp reached into his desk and removed a silver flask. He was not a drinking fellow by habit but this night he felt a need. He unscrewed the cap and poured a few ounces of schnapps into a glass, and sipped it. He savored the fiery fluid.

The hour was late, time was slipping away, time, time, time the real enemy. Pressures from Berlin were mounting, that crazy goose the Reichsfuhrer himself calling twice a day, babbling of what his astrologer and his masseur and his secretary and the little birdies in the sky were telling him. What had General Haussner said? “He has both feet planted firmly three feet above the ground.” Something like that.

Repp first met the Reichsfuhrer in the 1942 season in Berlin, shortly after Demyansk, when he was the hero of the hour. Himmler had worn cologne that smelled like mashed plums and wanted to know about Repp’s ancestors.

Repp knew what to say.

“Common people, Reichsfuhrer.”

“Very good. Our strength, the common people. Our mystic bond with the soil, the earth.” These words were delivered with unblinking sincerity in the middle of an opulent party in an industrialist’s mansion. Beautiful women swirled about — Margareta was one, he remembered. The room was filled with warmth and light. Sex was in the air and wealth and power and not seventy-two hours earlier Repp had been in the tower.

“Yes, the people,” the Reichsfuhrer had said. He looked like an eggplant wearing glasses.

But Repp didn’t want to think about the Reichsfuhrer right now. He took another sip of the schnapps and called Margareta up into his mind.

She’d been so beautiful that year. He was not moved by many things but he’d allowed himself to be moved by her. How had she ended up there? Oh, yes, she’d come with some theatrical people. He’d seen her before, back when he was a young lieutenant and too frightened to speak. But this time he walked up boldly and took her hand. He saw her eyes go to the Iron Cross he now wore.

“I’m Repp,” he said, bowing slightly.

“At least you didn’t snap your heels together like so many of them.”

He smiled. “I’ve been told anything in the city is mine. I choose you.”

“They meant hotel rooms. Restaurant tables. Seats at the opera. Invitations to parties.”

“But I don’t want those things. I want you.”

“You’re very forward. You’re the fellow in the tower, is that it? It seems I read something.”

“Three days ago I killed three hundred and forty-five Russians in the span of eight hours. Now doesn’t that make me rather special?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

“May I present you to the Reichsfuhrer? He’s now a patron of mine, I believe.”

“I know him. He’s dreadful.”

“A little pig. But a powerful patron. Come, let’s leave. I was in a very pleasant restaurant last night. I believe they’ll treat me nicely if I return. I even have a car and driver.”

“My first lover was killed in Poland. My next died in an air fight over London. Another was captured in the Western Desert.”

“Nothing will happen to me. I promise. Come, let’s go.”

She looked at him narrowly. “I came with a fellow, you know.”

“A general in the Waffen SS?”

“No, an actor.”

“Then he’s nothing. Please. I insist.”

She’d paused just a second, then said, “All right. But, please. No talk of war, Captain Repp.”

Pleasant. Yes, pleasant.

Repp finished the schnapps. He was tempted to take another, but a principle of his was to never yield to temptations.

He knew the Reichsfuhrer could call at any moment; and he knew he needed his strength for what lay ahead.

He sealed the bottle.

6

Susan and Leets were wedged tight against the Claridge bar. It was late on a Friday night in mid-March, wall-to-wall uniforms, no V-2’s had fallen for a couple of days, and after a lot of trying he’d finally talked her into an actual date. They’d had dinner at the Hungaria and, on Roger’s recommendation, had dropped by this bright spot, where all the London beauties and big shots were said to camp out. So far Susan had seen two movie stars and a famous radio broadcaster. Leets had noticed instead other OSS officers in the smoky crowd and had fancied himself already slighted a couple of times, and once had even made a move toward one snide aristocratic profile, but Susan had tugged him back.

“No trouble. Remember. You promised.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled.

Now, several whiskies down him, he was feeling sweeter, the friend to all men. He had her to himself: no Phil, no Jews.

“Barkeep,” he hailed, trolling in one of the red-jacketed boys behind the mahogany bar, “two here, old bun.”

“No wonder they hate us,” she said.

Around them the talk was of the new offensive. Beyond the Rhine! It would be over by the blooming of the flowers, the coming of spring. This optimism had the effect of depressing Leets.

“You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself,” she said. “For God’s sakes, smile a little. Relax.”

“You’re damned cheerful,” he said with surprise. It was true. The whole evening, she’d bubbled. She was especially beautiful, even in the severe cut of the brown uniform; some women looked good in anything. But it was something else. Susan seemed to be her old self: sly, mocking, mildly sarcastic, full of mischief.

“You’ve decided to make a career of Army nursing. Congrats!” he said.

She laughed.

“You’re divorcing Phil. Right? Am I right?”