“Section A,” said the one with the binoculars, which were now lying on the ground in front of him.
“Come on,” snapped Schellenberg. “Don’t waste my time. Section A what? ”
“Section A3.”
Schellenberg frowned. “But that’s the section that deals with matters of malicious opposition to the government. What on earth are you following me for?”
“As I said, there must have been a mistake. We’ve been tailing the wrong man, that’s all. Happens sometimes.”
“Don’t move until I tell you to move,” said Schellenberg. “So I’m not who you thought I was, eh?”
“We were tailing a suspected saboteur.”
“Does he have a name, this saboteur?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”
“How do you know that I’m not an associate of this saboteur of yours? If I was, I might shoot you. Perhaps I’ll shoot you anyway.”
“You won’t shoot us.”
“Don’t be so sure. I don’t like people following me.”
“This is Germany. We’re at war. People get followed all the time. It’s normal.”
“Then maybe I’ll shoot you both to get you off my ass.”
“I don’t think so. You don’t look like the type.”
“If I don’t look like the type, then why were you following me?”
“We weren’t following you, we were following your car,” said the other man.
“My car?” Schellenberg smiled. “Why, then you must know who I am. You’ve had plenty of time to get a Kfz- Schein on my car. That would easily have told you who and what I am.” He shook his head. “I think I’ll shoot you after all, just for being such bad liars.”
“You won’t shoot us.”
“Why not? Do you think anyone’s going to miss an ugly bastard like you?”
“We’re on the same side, that’s why,” said the one with the binoculars.
“But you still haven’t said how you know that. I’m not wearing a uniform, and I’m pointing a gun at you. I know you’re in the Gestapo. And the plain fact is that I’m a British spy.”
“No, you’re not, you’re in the same line of work we are.”
“Shut up, Karl,” said the man with the boxer’s ear.
“And what line of work would that be?”
“You know.”
“Shut up, Karl. Don’t you see what he’s trying to do?”
“I’m your enemy, Karl. And I’m going to kill you.”
“You can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You can’t, because you’re Reich Security Office, just like us, that’s why.”
Schellenberg smiled. “There, now. That wasn’t so very difficult. Since you’ve admitted you know who I am, then you’ll understand why I’m anxious to find out why you should want to follow me, an SD general.”
“Guilty conscience, is it?” said the man with the ear.
“Tell you what, Karl. I’m going to count to three, and if you don’t tell me what this is all about, I’m going to execute you both. Right here. Right now. One.”
“Tell him, Jurgen.”
“He won’t shoot us, Karl.”
“Two.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Karl. He won’t do it. He’s just bluffing.”
“Three.”
Schellenberg squeezed the trigger, and a startling staccato burst of fire shattered the silence of the forest. The MP40 was considered an effective weapon at up to a hundred meters, but at less than ten meters it was positively deadly, and he could hardly have missed his primary target-the tougher-looking man with the boxer’s ear. With the impact of each 9mm Parabellum bullet that struck him in the face and torso his body jerked and a short, feral scream escaped his bloody mouth. Then he rolled over, writhing on the ground, and a second or two later, was still.
Realizing that he was still alive, the other Gestapo man, the one called Karl, began to cross himself furiously, uttering a Hail Mary.
“Better talk to me, Karl,” said Schellenberg, tightening his grip on the MP40’s plastic handle. “Or would you like me to count to three again?”
“It was the chief’s direct order.”
“Muller?”
Karl nodded. “He’s trying to find out how far these peace negotiations of Himmler’s have gone. If it’s just Dr. Kersten, or if you’re involved, too.”
“I see,” said Schellenberg.
Things were a lot clearer to him now. In August of ’42, there had been a discussion involving himself, Himmler, and Himmler’s chiropractor, Dr. Felix Kersten, concerning how a peace with the Allies might be negotiated. The discussion had stalled pending the failed attempt to remove von Ribbentrop-who was perceived to be an obstacle to a diplomatic peace-from his post as Reich foreign minister. But Schellenberg was completely unaware of any current peace negotiations.
“Do you mean to say that there are peace negotiations taking place right now?”
“Yes. Dr. Kersten is in Stockholm, talking to the Americans.”
“And is he under surveillance, too?”
“Probably. I don’t know.”
“What about Himmler?”
“We were told to follow you. I’m afraid that’s all I know.”
“From where does Muller get this information?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take a guess.”
“All right. The splash around Prinz Albrechtstrasse is that there is someone in Himmler’s own office at the Ministry of the Interior who’s been throwing his voice in our direction. But I don’t know his name. Really I don’t.”
Schellenberg nodded. “I believe you.”
“Thank God.”
His mind was racing. There would have to be an investigation into the murder of the Gestapo man, of course. Muller would welcome a chance to embarrass him, and more important, Himmler. Unless…
“Have you got a radio in your car?”
“Yes.”
“Did you radio your last position?”
“We haven’t reported anything since we stopped outside the Ka-De-We.”
There it was, then. He was in the clear. But only if he was prepared to act decisively, now and without hesitation.
Even as the logic of it presented itself clearly to Schellenberg’s mind, he squeezed the trigger. And as he machine-gunned the second Gestapo man, in cold blood, Schellenberg felt that, finally, he had a kind of answer to the question that had often haunted him in the company of his more murderous colleagues. Two bodies now lay dead on the ground in front of him. Two murders hardly compared with Sandberger’s 65,000 or Janssen’s 33,000, but it could hardly be denied that the second murder had felt easier than the first.
With shaking hands, Schellenberg lit a cigarette and smoked it greedily, giving himself up to the soothingly toxic, alkaloid effect of the nicotine in the tobacco. With nerves somewhat steadied, he walked back to his car and took a large mouthful of schnapps from a little Wilhelmine silver hip flask he kept in the glove box. Then he drove slowly back to the Berkaerstrasse.
