The Master Sniper

“You simply can’t. We don’t make war on—”

“We make war on our enemies,” said Repp, “wherever we find them. In whatever form. The East would make you strong for such a thing.”

“You could bring yourself to do this?” Vollmerhausen wanted to cry. He was afraid he was going to be sick.

“With honor,” Repp said. He stood there in the dirty tunic of a private soldier, hatless.

“You can’t,” Vollmerhausen said. It seemed to him a most cogent argument.

Repp brought up the Walther P-38 and shot him beneath the left eye. The bullet kicked the engineer’s head back violently. Most of the face was knocked in. He fell onto Repp’s desk, crashing with it to the floor.

Repp put the automatic back into the shoulder holster under the tunic. He didn’t look at the body. He picked the report up from the floor — it had fluttered free from Vollmerhausen’s fingers at the moment of death — and walked to the small stove. He opened the door, inserted it and watched the flames consume it.

He heard a machine pistol. Schaeffer and his people were bumping off Vollmerhausen’s staff.

It occurred to Repp after several seconds that Schaeffer was doing the job quite poorly. He would have to speak to the man. The firing had not let up.

A bullet fractured one of Repp’s windows. Firing leapt up from a dozen points on the perimeter. Repp had an impression of tracers floating in.

Repp hit the floor, for he knew in that second that the Americans had come.

14

Roger played hard to get at first, demanding wooing, but after five minutes Leets was ready to woo him with a fist, and Roger shifted gears fast. Now it was a production, starring himself, directed by himself, produced by himself, the Orson Welles, tyro genius, of American Intelligence.

“Get on with it, man,” said Outhwaithe.

“Okay, okay.” He smiled smugly, and then wiped it off, leaving a smirk, like a child’s moustache of milk.

“Simple. In two words. You’ll kick yourself.” A grin split his pleasant young face. “The planes.”

“Uh—”

“Yeah,” he amplified. “So much on the route he took, so much on tracing it back, following it back to its source — all wrong. He said he thought he heard planes. Or maybe trucks or motorcycles. But maybe planes. Now—” he paused dramatically, letting an imitation of wisdom, solemn, furrow-browed, surface on his face, “I give this Air Corps guy lessons, colonel in Fighter Ops, once a week, little walking-around money. Anyway, I asked him if some guys bounced some weird kind of night action — under lights, middle of wilderness — say in March sometime, maybe late February, any chance you’d have it on paper?”

Leets was struck by the simple brilliance of it.

“That’s really good, Roger,” he said, at the same time thinking that he himself ought to be shot for not coming up with it.

Roger smiled at the compliment. “Anyway,” he said, handing over a photostatic copy of a document entitled “AFTER ACTION REPORT, Fighter Operations, 1033d Tactical Fighter Group, 8th Air Force, Chalois-sur- Marne.”

Leets tore into the pilot’s prosaic account of his adventures: two fighter-bombers, angling toward the marshaling yards at Munich for a dawn strike, find themselves above a lit field in the middle of what is on the maps pure wilderness. In it German soldiers scurry about. They peel off for one run, after which the lights go away.

“Can we track this?”

“Those numbers — that’s the pilot’s estimated position,” Roger said.

“Thirty-two min southeast Saar, one eighty-six?”

“Thirty-two minutes southeast of the Saarbrucken Initial Point, on a compass heading of one eighty-six degrees.”

“Can we get pictures?”

“Well, sir, I’m no expert but—”

“I can have an RAF photo Spitfire in an hour,” said Tony.

“Roger, get over to R and D and pick up those mock-ups of Anlage Elf they were building, okay?”

“Check,” said Roger.

“Jesus,” said Leets. “If this is—”

“Big if, chum.”

“Yeah, but if, if we can get a positive ID, we can …” He let the sentence trail off.

“Yes, of course,” said Tony. “But first, the Spit. You’ll see the Jew. He’ll be important in this too, of course. He’ll have to come in at some point. He’s necessary.”

“Yes, I’ll see him.”

“Then I’m off,” Tony said.

“Hey,” wondered Roger, disappointed that his brief instant in the spotlight had so soon vanished, “what are you guys talking about?”

Leets didn’t seem to hear him. He looked strangely excited, and he was muttering distractedly to himself. He rubbed his lips, which had dried in the excitement, and for just one second Roger had the impression the captain was near breakdown, madly muttering to himself, full of private visions and prophecies.

“Sir,” Roger repeated, louder, “what’s going to happen now?”

“Well,” said Leets, “I guess we have to close them down. Put some people in there.”

People, thought Roger, swallowing dryly. He had to stop himself from asking, Me too?

The Gentile women treated him like some dreadful little wog, foreign and stinky, that they were helping out of great pity. In return they expected his love and when he would not give it they were enraged. They resented the private room when down the hall their own boys, wounded gallantly in battle, lay festering in huge public bays. He was not truly hurt either; he insisted on heathen protocols, the removal of the crucifix, for example; but most contemptibly of all, Somebody Important had an interest in him.

Shmuel lay back, alone. His head buzzed with pain. Luminous shapes entwined on the ceiling. A film of sweat covered him. He closed his eyes and saw smokestacks belching flame and human ash on the horizon, the glow orange and lurid. He opened them to an equally unsatisfactory reality: the English hospital room to which he’d been removed, a blank green chamber, pitiless, the odors of disinfectants rising. There were screams in the night. He knew people looked in on him at all hours. And the hospital merely symbolized a whole Western world he’d fled into — where else had there been to go, what other direction for a poor Jew? But in many ways it was as dreadful a place as the one from which he’d just escaped. There, at least, there were other Jews, a sense of community. Here, nobody cared, or would even listen. The Gentiles wanted him for something strange; he was not sure he trusted them.

It didn’t matter. He knew he was nearing the end of the journey and he didn’t mean the geographic journey from Warsaw to the death camp to Anlage Elf to the forest to London, but rather its inner representation — as though each step was a philosophical position that must be mastered, its truth grasped, before moving on. At last he was turning into one of the Mussulmen, the living dead who roamed the camps as pariahs, having accepted doom and therefore no longer suited for human contact. Death was no longer meaningful; it was mere biology, a final technical detail to be adjusted.

He accepted death; therefore he accepted the dead; therefore he preferred the dead.

For everyone was dead. Bruno Schulz was dead, killed in ’42, in Drohobicz. Janucz Korczak was dead; Auschwitz. Perle, Warsaw. Gebirtig, Cracow. Katzenelson, the Vittel camp. Glick, Vilna. Shaievitz, Lodz. Ulianover, also Lodz.

The list was longer of course, longer a million times.