that might have indicated some degeneration in the nerve fibers of the spinal cord, possibly even signs of progressive paralysis.”
“Go on.”
“It was Morell’s opinion that this was tabes dorsalis, also known as locomotor ataxia.” Kersten lit a cigarette and stared grimly at the glowing tip. “A tertiary syphilitic infection of the nerves.”
“Holy Christ!” exclaimed Schellenberg. “Are you saying that the Fuhrer has syphilis?”
“Not me, for God’s sake. Not me. Morell. And this was only a suspicion. Not a complete diagnosis. For that there would have to be blood tests and an examination of Hitler’s private parts.”
“But if it’s true?”
Kersten sighed loudly. “If it’s true, then it’s possible that, periodically at least, Germany may be led by someone suffering from acute paranoia.”
“Periodically.”
“Hitler might appear rational for most of the time, with bouts of insanity.”
“Just like Nietzsche.”
“Exactly so.”
“Except that Nietzsche was in an asylum.”
“Actually, no. He was committed to an asylum but was released into the care of his own family and eventually died at home.”
“Raving.”
“Yes. Raving.”
“That sounds familiar.”
Schellenberg collected his overnight bag off the bed and emptied the contents into the quilt. “Then let us hope that when he wrote these letters to each of the Big Three he was in a rational phase.”
“So that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes. Himmler wants you to deliver them to the appropriate government representatives.”
Kersten picked up one of the three letters and turned it over in his pudgy hands as if it had been something written in Goethe’s own handwriting. “To bear such a huge responsibility,” he muttered. “Incredible.”
Schellenberg shrugged and looked away. That Germany’s future should be entrusted to the hands of a forty- five-year-old Finnish masseur seemed no less incredible to him.
“Hewitt, I suppose, for the letter to Roosevelt,” said Kersten.
Schellenberg nodded vaguely; could any of the Big Three possibly treat such a bizarre overture with any seriousness?
“Madame de Kollontay, for the Soviets, of course.”
He liked Kersten and had the greatest respect for him as a therapist, and yet he could not help but think that this kind of back-door diplomacy-no, asylum-door diplomacy was more like it-was doomed to fail.
“I’m not sure about the British,” murmured Kersten. “I haven’t had a great deal to do with the British. Henry Denham, perhaps. Now, he is a spy, I think.”
All of which left Schellenberg angry with Himmler. What on earth was he thinking? Was Himmler any less insane than Hitler?
“I’ll ask Hewitt when I see him later this afternoon,” continued Kersten. “He’s a patient of mine, you know. His back pain provides a useful cover for our meetings.”
How dare he, thought Schellenberg. How dare Himmler charge this simple man, of limited intellectual ability, with a mission like this and describe Schellenberg’s own idea as sounding like something out of Der Pimpf?
Schellenberg could now see no alternative. He was going to have to try again to sell Himmler on his plan to assassinate the Big Three. And perhaps there was something in Nietzsche that might help. He was no philosopher, but he remembered enough of what he had read of Nietzsche to know that Himmler would appreciate his florid tone. There was a phrase in Nietzsche’s book about morals that seemed appropriate. About how only rare superior individuals-the noble ones, the Ubermenschen, yes, Himmler loved that particular word-could rise above all moral distinctions to achieve a heroic life of truly human worth. Something like that, perhaps, might help sell Himmler on his plan. And after Himmler, Hitler, too. Hitler would be easy. Himmler was the harder sell. After Himmler, Hitler would be a piece of cake.
VII
I pulled the last page off the typewriter carriage, separated it from the carbon copy, added it to the pile of typewritten pages, and then read the report through from start to finish. Satisfied with what I had written, I stapled the sheets together and placed them in an envelope. It was just after eleven o’clock. I thought that if I took the report straight over to the White House first thing in the morning, the president might add it to his next evening’s reading. And going into the hallway I placed the envelope containing the report inside my briefcase.
A moment or two later Diana came through the front door using the key I had given her to do exactly that. She had her own place up in Chevy Chase to which I had a key, and this arrangement made us feel like a really modern couple with a healthy sex life and a pet dog. I just hadn’t gotten around to buying the pet dog yet. Mostly she came to my place because it was a little nearer the center of Washington, such as it is.
She shook out her umbrella and set it in the hall stand. She was wearing a navy blue suit with gold buttons and a white blouse inside it that was low enough to remind me of one of the reasons I was attracted to her. I was grown up enough to understand the principle behind this kind of adolescent fascination. I just didn’t know why I was still such a sucker for it. Her blond hair made her look like a minor goddess, and on it she wore a broad-brimmed hat that might have been stolen from a Catholic priest, always assuming they’d gone over to wearing pink hats instead of red ones that season. I pitied the people behind her in the movie theater. That was, if she really had been to a movie. She smelled of cigarettes and perfume and alcohol, which is a combination my nose found almost irresistible. But it hardly seemed appropriate for someone who had spent her evening with Don Ameche. Unless she really had spent her evening with Don Ameche. Which might have explained everything.
“How was the movie?” I enquired.
She took a couple of Grand Inquistor’s pins out of her hat and placed them and it on the hall table.
“You’d have hated it.”
“I don’t know. I like Gene Tierney.”
“Hell looked nice.”
“Somehow I’ve always thought it would.”
She walked into the drawing room and helped herself to a cigarette from a silver box.
“Where’s it playing?” I asked. “Maybe I’ll go and see it.”
“I told you. You’d have hated it.”
“And I said I liked Gene Tierney. So maybe I’ll go and see it.”
She lit her cigarette irritably and walked over to a chair where the Post had been tossed earlier that evening. “It’s in there somewhere,” she said.
“Actually, I know where it’s playing. I just wanted to see if you did.”
“What are you driving at?”
“Only that you don’t look or smell like someone who’s been to a movie with some girlfriends.”
“All right. I didn’t go to the movies. Satisfied?”
I smiled. “Perfectly.” I picked up my empty glass, took it into the kitchen, washed and dried it, came back into the drawing room, and put it away in the cabinet. I think I even managed to whistle a few bars of some jaunty Irish air. Diana hadn’t budged. She was still standing there, arms folded across her chest and, but for the cigarette in her well-manicured hand, she looked like the school principal awaiting an explanation. That was what impressed me. The speed with which she managed to turn things around so that I was the one who was at fault.
