The Hunt

Hitler cradled the phone.

He went back to the window. The storm clouds raced across the night sky. To the north, the lightning still brightened the heavens. But it was clear that the storm was moving on. Hitler took it as a final sign.

He whirled on Vierhaus. “People must be convinced that this plot to overthrow the government was real,” he said. “Rohm is not unpopular, you know.”

“You can make people believe anything if you tell them in the proper way,” Vierhaus said softly.

Hitler shook his head violently.

‘Ja, ja! But it must come from me. It must be in my words. The people know my words.”

He strolled around the room, stopped and stared at the wall for several minutes.

“Let me tell you something, Willie,” he said. “The world is ruled by fear and the most effective political instrument of fear is terror. Terror conditions people to anticipate the worst. It breaks the will. The people must understand that this. . . insurrection . . . cannot—will not—be tolerated ever again. Hmm?” He nodded approval of his own words.

“So . . . Rohm plans to overthrow the Fuhrer, does he?” Hitler said with a sneer of satisfaction. “Well then, call the airport. I want to know when we can leave for Munich. We will initiate Hummingbird immediately.”

He looked at his diminutive sycophant.

“Let the killing begin,” he hissed.

As they approached Brown House, Hitler could see Reinhard Heydrich standing at attention on the front steps with half a dozen men behind him. There was no mistaking Heydrich. Even in the darkest moments before dawn, his tall, gaunt, ramrod figure was unmistakable. As they drew closer, Heydrich’s cadaverous features and dead eyes were highlighted by street lamps.

Hitler felt a sudden chill. There was something about Heydrich. He was almost too efficient, like a bloodless robot. But he was integral to Hitler’s plans, a man who took orders without hesitation and who performed admirably. When Vierhaus had discovered that Heydrich’s grandmother, Sarah, was Jewish, Hitler had officially purged him of his “tainted blood,” making Heydrich an Aryan by decree.

One of his men sprang to the armored car and opened the door. Heydrich cracked his heels together as Hitler got out and snapped his arm out in the Nazi salute.

“Hell Hitler.”

Acknowledging the salute, the dictator asked, “Well, Heydrich, how does it go?”

“We arrested Schneidhuber and his assistant, Schmid, without incident. They are under guard along with a dozen other SA who were here already, all under house arrest. All protesting bitterly.”

“Of course,” Hitler snapped. Schneidhuber, a former army colonel, was the Munich chief of police and the highest ranking SA official in the city. It was rumored he would be Rohm’s chief of staff if the Wehrmacht and SA merged.

“Schneidhuber,” he growled under his breath as he followed Heydrich into the lobby of the Nazi headquarters building. Schneidhuber was a heavyset man in his late forties who affected the turned-up wax mustache and monocle of the Prussians. His thick lips seemed permanently curved into an arrogant sneer. He was in SA uniform as was his aid, Edmund Schmid, in stature a smaller version of his boss. Small and rotund, he had the dull look of a typical sycophant.

Upon seeing them, Hitler went into a violent rage. His face seemed to swell up. Veins stood out in his forehead and his color turned from white to red almost to purple.

“You traitor!” he screamed at Schneidhuber. “You miserable pig of a man!”

“Mein Fuhrer,” Schneidhuber pleaded. “I don’t underst—”

“Shut up! Shut ... up!” Hitler bellowed. He began to shake. Suddenly he reached out and grabbed the SA insignia on the police chief’s epaulets and tugged at them, jerking the stout officer back and forth, until part of one of the sleeves tore away.

“You are beneath the contempt of everyone, everyone, Schneidhuber, you hear me! You . . . are . . . a . . . yellow, incompetent, lying. .

He stopped and backed away, still clutching the handful of cloth, then dropped it and clawed for his pistol.

Heydrich stepped around him, drew his Luger and held it at arm’s length, six inches from Schneidhuber’s face.

“Mein Gott!” Schneidhuber screamed, a moment before the pistol roared in his face and he felt the burning gasses scorch his face and the sudden explosion in his brain. His head jerked back and he sprawled on the floor, his forehead scorched by the hot powder. The small, singed, nine- millimeter hole was squarely between his eyes.

Schmid fell against the wall. His knees buckled. He held his hand at arm’s length in front of his face.

“Please,” he whined.

Heydrich fired the first shot into the palm of Schmid’s hand. It ripped through both hands and creased Schmid’s forehead. The little man fell screaming to the floor and Heydrich leaned over and shot him behind the ear.

Heydrich turned to Hitler.

“They were beneath your effort, mein Fuhrer,” he said.

“Quite right, quite right,” a shaken Hitler said. “Where are the others. How many are at the hotel?”

“Half a dozen,” Heydrich answered. “The rest will start coming in by train about six.”