The Master Sniper

operator, eh?”

“Okay, okay,” said Roger quickly, “here’s what, I got it, I got it, we’ll radio OSS in Bern or Zurich. They could get in contact with the Swiss police. There’s just a chance that—”

“There’s no chance at all,” said Leets. “We are now in the middle of the biggest celebration in three thousand-odd years of European history. They knew all along.”

“I suppose we can rationalize our failure,” said Tony. “We could argue that it’s really none of our business: one lone German criminal and some stateless Jews in neutral territory. We did give it a very good effort. Nobody can say we didn’t try.”

“Anybody got any aspirin?” Leets asked grumpily. “Jesus, it sounds like a goddamned party out there. I keep hearing women. Are there women out there, Roger?”

“Some Red Cross girls,” Roger said. “Look, another thing we could try is the legation. There’s bound to be a night duty officer. Now he could—”

“I sure could stand to get laid,” Leets said. “I haven’t gotten laid since—” he trailed off.

“And of course there’s a political dimension to be considered too,” said Tony. “All that money going to Zionists. It seems quite possible that some of those funds might be diverted into ends other than those best for King and country, eh? Let’s fold up here and go find ourselves a pint, and enjoy the celebration.”

“Captain, we—”

“All right, Roger.”

“Captain, we can’t just—”

“All right, Roger,” he said. “Boy, do I have a headache. I always knew this would happen. Right from the start. I could feel it, I knew it was in the cards. Goddamn it.”

“I suppose I did too,” said Tony, rising wearily. “It certainly has got dark fast, hasn’t it?”

“What’re you guys talking about?” Roger asked, fearing the answer.

“Roger, go get the Jeep,” said Tony. “And tell me please where the bloody phone is in this mausoleum.”

“Hey, what—”

“Roger,” Leets finally explained, “it’s come down to us. You, me, Tony. Only way. Go get the Jeep.”

“We can never drive there,” said Roger. “We’re hundreds of miles away. It’s almost eight. Not that far in so short—”

“We can probably make it to Nuremberg in two hours. Then, if we’re lucky, real lucky, we can promote an airplane. Then—”

“Jesus, what is this, dreamland? We’d have to get landing clearances, visas, stuff like that. Permission from the Swiss. Find another car on the ground. Drive to, what was it, Applewell or whatever, then find this place. Before midnight. That’s the craziest thing I—”

“No,” Leets said, “no cars, no visas, no maps. We jump in. Like Normandy, like Varsity, like Anlage Elf.”

“Where is that damned telephone?” said Tony.

Tony found his phone — a whole abandoned switchboard full of them, in fact — in the great monumental stairwell around which Schloss Pommersfelden was built. But the space began to fill with people, drawn out of offices and billets, or drawn off the road by the blazing lights. It was one of those rare nights when no one wanted to be alone; no one was moody or unhappy. A future had just opened up for them.

Women began to appear. From where? Wasn’t this place really a kind of prison? Red Cross girls, newspaper correspondents, WAC’s, a few British nurses, some German women even. The stairwell jammed up with flesh. Everybody was rubbing, grinding, bumping, stroking. Liquor, looted from somewhere in the castle, began to appear in heroic quantities. Nobody had time for glasses; one-hundred-year-old Rhine wines in black dusty bottles were sucked down like Cokes by GI’s. A radio provided music. Dog-faces and generals rubbed shoulders in crowded orbits around the girls. Leets thought he heard the German officers singing in the detention wing — something schmaltzy and sentimental in counterpoint to the Big Band jangle from the radio.

A girl kissed Leets. He could feel her tits squash flat against his chest. She put a boozy tongue in his ear and whispered something specific and began to tug at him, and then someone ripped her away.

Meanwhile, Tony worked the phone. Leets could not help but hear.

“I say.” Tony especially the stage Englishman, David Niven, for Christ’s sake. “Major Outhwaithe here, his Majesty’s Royal Fusiliers, hello, hello, is this Nuremberg, Signal Corps, could you talk up, please, yes, much better, I’m told a British Mosquito squadron is about, at the airfield of course, can you possibly buzz me through, old fellow, must be an Air Officer Commanding about, no, no, English chap, funny talker like me, right, Limey, at least a group captain, what you chaps would call a colonel, yes, it sounds like a lovely party, we’re having quite a one at this end ourselves, but do you think you could arouse Group Captain Manville? I see, yes, pity, then is it possible you could patch me through to that bunch then, yes, RAF, yes, hello, hello, are you there, Group Captain Manville? Yes, another Brit, Outhwaithe, of Mi-six, or SOE actually, you’re not Sara Finchley’s cousin, ah, yes, thought so, believe I laid eyes on you in ’37 at Henley, the regatta, you were the coxswain in the number-two boat, yes, bit of a hero, weren’t you, Magdalen man, eh? and didn’t you football as well, thought so, no, not Magdalen, Christ Church, ’30, languages, got me into this spy business, yes, cushy, I agree, a few times, France, scratches though, yes, wonderful it’s over, but I’ve heard Labour will win the next general, boot poor Winston out on his arse, yes, drinks awfully, heard the same myself, stay in? Good God, now? done my bit, time to get back though it’ll be all different, every little thing’ll have changed for the worse though I fancy in a year or so or ten or twenty, we’ll look back on all this and think it great fun, highlight of our days, though right now it seems bleak enough, yes, sad in a way that it’s over, they were mighty days, weren’t they? and how is dear Sara, really, that common little Welshman Jones, Ives, Ives, both legs, she’s marrying him anyway? why, how splendid, sounds like a novel, Arnhem, heard it was a throw of the dice all the way, Red Devil, those were brave lads, those were, make the rest of us look like sodders, quite a show, quite a show, Frost’s adjutant? and how is Johnny? glad to be free, I’ll bet, now, by the way, Group Captain, Tom, Tom is it? Tony here, yes, Antony, a major, they weren’t so generous with the rank in our backwash department of the war, hope it doesn’t hold me back after I’m demobbed, no telling how the records will count, yes, anyway, now, Tom, dear fellow, I’m in a bit of a pinch, yes, not a real bother, but time-consuming nevertheless, need an airplane, a Mosquito actually, yes, good ship, the Mossie—” Tony looked up at Leets, covered the speaker and said, “The beggar’s completely sozzled,” and returned without missing a beat. “—all wood, I know, I always wondered how they stood up to Jerry flak, flew between it, ho ho ho ho, very good, Tom, now, Tom, we’ve got to get to Switzerland in rather a dash, I know it’s the best party since Kitchener reached Khartoum and God knows we’ve all earned it, and it’s rather a chunk of a favor I’m asking, but it seems to be on the urgent side, a loose Jerry end we need to tie down, time’s a-wasting and I haven’t got time to call the right people upstairs, and of course the Yanks, as usual, would rather play rub-my-bum with the Russians than listen to us, but as I say, it would be awfully nice if I could hitch a ride to, well, I’m glad you realize the importance, yes, Tom, yes, yes, about two hours, yes, I understand, yes, quite, quite, of course, best to Sara, best to her fellow Jones, Ives, sorry, Ives, wonderful girl, so brave, tally-ho,” and at last he laid the phone down in its cradle.

“He said No?”

“He said Yes. I think. So drunk he could hardly speak, the music was quite loud. But there’ll be a Mosquito on the field at ten at Grossreuth Flughafen. God.” He stood.

Leets and Outhwaithe pushed their way through the celebrants, and out into the night, where Roger waited with the Jeep and the Thompson submachine guns.

Repp, at 400 meters out, had an angle of about 30 degrees to the target zone. It was his best compromise, close enough to put his rounds in with authority, yet high enough to clear the wall. He half crouched now behind an outcrop of rock. The Vampir rifle lay before him on the stone, on its bipod, the bulky optics skewing it to one side. Repp had removed the pack and set it next to the rifle so that its weight wouldn’t pull his shooting off.

Enough light lingered to let him examine the buildings beneath and beyond him. Built five hundred years ago by fierce Jesuits, the buildings had been walled and somewhat modernized early in the century when the order of Mother Teresa took them over as a convent. It looked like a prison. The chapel, the oldest building, was not