The Hunt

He paid the driver, entered the store and bought a package of cigarettes, then left, walked away from the embassy and turned a corner. He hurried to a phone booth halfway down the block and stood with his back to the Street as he gave the operator the American attache’s private number. He was sweating again, his breath labored. He could taste fear in his mouth. It seemed forever before the secretary answered.

“Colonel Meredith’s office.”

“The colonel, please,” Reinhardt said as he checked both ends of the street.

“Who may I say is calling?”

Were the phones tapped? he wondered. Could he take a chance?

“Please, it is a matter of life and death. May I speak to the colonel.”

“Can’t you give me your name?” she asked.

He hesitated a moment then said, “No. Just give me the colonel, for God’s sake! Please.”

There was a pause. For a terrible moment he thought he’d been disconnected. Then he heard a click and a blessed human voice.

“This is Colonel Meredith. Who is this, please?”

“This is an old friend, Colonel. You told me if I ever needed help I could call you . .

“I recognize your voice, don’t say any more,” the colonel interrupted. “Are you close by?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Two blocks, three blocks?”

“Two blocks east. Side street phone booth.”

“Do you remember the place we went for frankfurters?”

Reinhardt looked over his shoulder. An American food store known as The Brooklyn Delicatessen was directly across the street.

“Yes,” he said, and wondered why he was whispering.

“Go there now. Immediately. I’ll have somebody there in two minutes.”

“Danke. Please hurry.”

Reinhardt walked briskly across the street and entered the store. As he walked in the proprietor was answering the phone. He listened for a moment, looked at Reinhardt, said something, hung up and jerked his head toward the rear of the store.

Reinhardt went straight down the aisle and through a set of curtains into a tiny, cramped office with a rear door, an old roll-top desk stacked high with correspondence, and shelves of canned goods lining one wall. He waited, peering cautiously through the curtains. He could see the phone booth across the street. Moments crawled by.

A Mercedes pulled up at the booth and four SA troopers jumped out. One checked the booth, the other three looked up and down the street. Then one of them pointed at the store.

Panic seized the tousled little man. He turned and rushed out the back door.

Two men stood just outside the doer, huddled in raincoats, hands stuffed in pockets, rain trickling off the brims of their hats. One held open the rear door of a sedan. A third man sat behind the steering wheel. Steam curled from the exhaust of the car.

“Herr Reinhardt?” one of them said.

Reinhardt’s terrified eyes jerked in their sockets.

“It’s all right, sir,” said the taller of the two, grabbing him by the arm. “I’m Major Trace, U.S. embassy. Get in the car, quickly.”

“They’re right behind me. The SA are right behind me!” he cried as he jumped in the backseat. The two Americans followed, one in the front, Trace in the back with Reinhardt. The car roared away before they got the doors fully closed.

“On the floor, please,” Trace said firmly. Reinhardt dropped on his knees on the floor and the major threw a blanket over him.

“No matter what happens, don’t move,” Trace said.

Huddled under the blanket, Reinhardt almost vomited with fear. He felt the car skid around a corner, heard its horn blaring. The next few seconds seemed like hours. He felt the car slow down for an instant, then stop. He could hear muffled voices outside the car.

My God, I am caught, Reinhardt thought. I am dead.

Then the car started up again. A few seconds later, Trace said, “Okay, sir, you can breathe easy, you’re on U.S. soil.”

Keegan stood in the entrance to the main embassy salon, appraising the guests and listening to the band in the ballroom attempting to play jazz in a tempo that was more Victor Herbert than Chick Webb.