The Hunt

At the foot of the stairs, Hitler turned to Vierhaus and whispered, “Well, what do you think, Willie? Will our Schauspieler accept the challenge?”

“I think there is no question,” Vierhaus answered confidently.

“Well, after tonight, I don’t think his courage could ever be faulted.”

“In fact,” Vierhaus answered, “after his stunt tonight I would say he is a man who enjoys taking risks. Perhaps without thought of the consequences.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

“He risked his life scaling your icy wall and he was not at all concerned with what your reaction might be. He simply didn’t care.”

“Hmm. Are you implying there may be some hidden surprises with this fellow?” Hitler pressed on. “That he may have, what do you call them, fatal flaws?”

“Not at all. I think he’s the perfect man for the job.”

Vierhaus was shading the truth a bit. He knew all human beings harbor hidden surprises. Vierhaus was a trained psychologist, a conditioned skeptic who impulsively looked beyond the surface. He knew that within that cold cell of the mind there were obsessions, compulsions, dark impulses, secrets, even imaginary companions, and the line between the neurotic and the psychotic was thin indeed. The neurotic submitted to those passions. The psychotic was a victim of them.

Thus far he had only intelligence reports on Ingersoll on which to base his judgment. Simple facts—Himmler’s people were not interested in interpretation, they were collectors of data—and the data had not permitted a reliable analysis of the man. Now, after a day and night in which to observe Ingersoll, some questions had crept into his mind.

Sitting in the darkened theater, Vierhaus had focused on the actor. His entrance through the French doors had been a startling piece of showmanship—but did it indicate something else?

Was Ingersoll an eccentric artist? Or was there some dark secret lurking inside his head that could at some crucial moment explode like a volcano and endanger the entire mission?

In short, was this man eccentric, neurotic or psychotic?

Or was he all three?

Vierhaus simply did not know but he had his own megalomania and was confident that if the actor accepted Hitler’s proposal, he could control and master the man. It was a risky assumption but one he had to take. He had convinced the Fuhrer that Ingersoll was perfect for the job, it was too late to back away now.

Five minutes passed before Ingersoll heard the footsteps mounting the stairs and coming dowry the hallway. He leaned over his notes. He heard the footsteps stop and a moment later a tap on the door. He turned, acting startled. Hitler was peering in the doorway.

“Excuse me, Colonel Wolfe, your door was open.”

Ingersoll scrambled to get to his feet but Hitler waved him back down.

“Stay down, please. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Please come in,” Ingersoll said. “I was just jotting down some notes on the film. Little things, you know. A snip here, a snip there.”

Hitler pushed the door open but did not enter the room. He stood framed in the entrance with his hands behind his back.

“Always the perfectionist, eh?”

“I suppose I am. It drives the technicians crazy.”

“Then you should get better technicians.”

“I keep hoping we have the best.”

“Well, I did not mean to disturb you Thank you again for the film. As you can tell, everyone was thrilled by it. I will watch it many times more, I am sure. And thank you for coming to my home.”

“It is the highlight of my life, mein Fu1rer. It is I who thank you.” He paused for a moment and then said, “I would like to repay the kindness . . . in a small way of course, I’m afraid I can’t match the significance of the dagger.”

“Usually a German shepherd puppy goes with the commission. To be a companion during the training period. But in your case, it seemed inappropriate.”

“One of my vices is fine wines,” Ingersoll said. “I have about two hundred bottles of vintage French reds and whites at my country house. I would like you to have them, Fuhrer.”

Hitler was genuinely surprised at the offer. Then the significance of the gift slowly sank in. His expression turned quizzical, then curious, then his eyes widened and he smiled broadly.

“That is a very generous gift, Colonel.”

He paused, his eyebrows rounded in to question marks.

“When Hans Wolfe dies,” said Ingersoll, “the wine will be delivered to you.”

Hitler clenched his fists to his chest. H is expression was one of pure joy.

“So you agree then?”

“Yes,” Ingersoll said, rising to his feet, “I would be honored to become Siebenundzwanzig.”